


Drabbles of Ice and Fire

by theelusiveflamingo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aerys is a walking trigger warning, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Amnesia, Bibleverse, Christmas, Cousin Incest, Crack, Drabbles, Essos Ass, F/F, F/M, Gen, Lorath, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Series, Robert's Rebellion, Sad Targaryen Feelings, Sexual Abuse, Sibling Incest, Slash, Tumblr, Uncle/Niece Incest, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 61
Words: 25,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelusiveflamingo/pseuds/theelusiveflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ongoing collection of drabbles set in the ASOIAF/GoT universe.</p><p>I have removed all Arya x Jaqen drabbles from this set.  They can now be found at <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3783448/">The Arya x Jaqen Drabbles</a>.  New ones will be posted there instead of in any other drabble set.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eyelids; Rhaella and Viserys

Inside the great wheelhouse it was dark no matter the hour, and every corner and crevice seemed to Rhaella to smell of particularly pungent onions; what the smell  _really_ was, however, was the stench of her husband, who was chewing on one of his nails like a child.  He had not bathed for the occasion.  So Rhaella had made sure to scrub Viserys from head to toe, til he turned pink and red and redder still.  His father might have made a poor king, but at least Rhaella could ensure her son looked every inch the prince as they made their way to Harrenhal for the tourney.

Rhaegar had chosen not to sit in the wheelhouse with his family.  He had ridden ahead on his mount.  But he was no ray of light either, that one, Rhaella thought.  Had he been in the wheelhouse the dark wood and dim light would have seemed darker still.

“It’s funny,”  Aerys said.  “The world looks much the same as it did at—”  He stuttered the word out.  “Duskendale.”

“The world never changes much, I should think,” Rhaella said.  “You should venture out more.  Show the smallfolk a bit of love.  They will give you much in return.”

“Are you my Hand, woman?” Aerys snapped.  “I did not ask for your counsel.”

 _Woman?  I am your wife, your /sister/._ Long ago this had been true, maybe.  Now those words meant little to Aerys.  They meant less to Rhaella.

She turned to Viserys, who was sucking at his thumb despite being too old for such things.  Rhaella kept him from his father so often that when the two were together, Viserys never seemed to know what to think of the man.

 _“I loved a boy as fair as summer,”_ Rhaella sang to him.  “ _With sunlight in his hair.”_

He nestled against her side and his eyes flickered closed.

“That’s no way to sing to a prince,” Aerys complained, though he was looking at a point somewhere over Rhaella’s head.  He had not looked her properly in the eye in quite some time.  “He’ll turn out soft.”

 _Yes, soft like your nails and the hair on your chin_ , Rhaella thought.   _Soft like your cock at the time when a normal man’s would be aroused._

She kissed Viserys atop his beautiful crown of curls, kissed his eyelids softly til he smiled.  She had lost the man she’d never wanted.  She would most likely lose her first son, lose him to his books and his swords and his folly.  But she would never lose Viserys.  She’d make sure of it.


	2. Hips; Cersei/Jaime

The other women at court are maddening when they are with child.  They simper and giggle and decide whether they’re fat with a boy or a girl based on how sore their teats are or how many times in a day they’ve sent their gluttonous feasts sailing down the privy shaft.

Their foolish agitation—they’re no more than chickens cackling in a henhouse, really—does nothing but make Cersei smile.  She was never more content in her superiority—she is a lion, a  _Queen_ —than when she carried Joff inside her, and now with this next one it is no different.  Whoever he or she will be, they’ll be a Lannister through and through, a copy of herself and of the only man who matters.

Cersei knows she’s the most beautiful woman in all the seven kingdoms, but she feels even more golden still with her head high and her back straight and her belly heavy full of Jaime.  Though Jaime’s just a boy, still, in so many ways, with no interest in children (nor can he show much interest in these particular children), he is more reverent with her now than ever before.  He comes to her whenever he can slip away, and his eyes soften at the sight of her, as though every time is the first time.

 _How is my Queen_ , he’ll say mockingly, but he’ll kneel and kiss her toes.   _Does she wish to be fucked?_

 _She wishes to be kissed first, you fool,_ Cersei will say, leaning back against her pillows.  She’ll play with the laces of her gown and watch how Jaime’s green eyes are drawn to the way her fingers move.

 _Really.  And where would she like to be kissed?_ Jaime will already be sprawled next to her, his lips in her hair and his breath soft on her ear and his hands twining furiously on her laces, before he is done asking.

 _Everywhere_ , she’ll command, but as he trails little kisses across her jawbone and to her mouth, as he moistens her lips with his own, she loses sight of commanding, she loses sight of all; she is Cersei, she is Jaime, she is the warm bulk of Jaime wrapping around her and the warmer bulk of their child inside.   _Jaime,_ she will gasp out _, Jaime, yes there, Jaime, everywhere, please, everywhere—_

The last thing she will be aware of is her twin running his tongue and lips underneath her stomach and over her hips, kissing her over and over with such fervor that he moans a little with every kiss, before his mouth dips lower still and her world is nothing but warmth.  


	3. Petrichor; Lyanna/Rhaegar

Lyanna had never thought it rained much in Dorne, but she’d also never thought that beautiful people could be _wrong_ on the inside.  The Tower of Joy taught her how wrong she’d been.

She knew something was not quite right when the first storm of the journey broke over them just as Rhaegar’s mount entered the Prince’s Pass.  Her arms ached from clinging to Rhaegar’s firm waist, so she rested her lips against his ear and asked:

“May I have a turn, Your Gr—”

“ _Rhaegar_ ,” he said, and he took his hand off the reins to give hers a squeeze.  “You’re to call me Rhaegar.  Just rest, Lyanna.  I don’t want you to have to do a bit of work.   There’ll be plenty to do when we get there.”

Lyanna squeezed his hand back, but already the sweetness of the crown prince’s love tasted sour.  She’d never been to Dorne and liked the idea of guiding them boldly through the Red Mountains, going onwards to face things she’d never seen before.  And besides, she could ride like the best of men.

But how would he have known?  As it turned out, Rhaegar never spoke to her, though he spent every waking hour by her side.  He traced the shapes of her lips and face and breasts over and over again; he sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor and sang to her of stone wrapped in flame and dreams of blue roses; he fucked her, oh yes, he _fucked_ her, over and over and faster and faster like a warrior, but he was gentle, too, as though she were his hardiest destrier and his rarest book all at once.  The sensation of his muscles pumping felt good underneath her hands, she supposed, but his cheeks would turn a blotchy red that looked awful on his Targaryen skin, and Lyanna couldn’t help but think of spilled wine and splattered fruits.  All things that looked good until they broke.

“Ask me about my home, Rhaegar,” she’d whisper in his ear when he’d finally spilled and spent himself and curled up next to her in the dark.  “Isn’t there anything you want to know?”  His hair was so light she could see it plainly in the dark, though after he fucked her it looked more like spilt broom-straw than anything princely.

He’d mumble things about _dragons_ and _three_ and then he’d be asleep with his arm resting heavily across her belly.

Only then could she get up and slip to the window and press her face to the stone wall, where in the cracks she could smell earth and rain, _home._

She liked to trace her brothers’ names on the floor and then fall asleep sprawled on her tracings, the scent of past rains lulling her to sleep.  She’d always wake up in the middle of the night as Rhaegar scooped her off the floor, bringing her gently back to their bed.  He chuckled, he always chuckled as he laid her head on the pillow and combed her hair back, but he never once asked her why she slept on the floor; he never once asked her anything.

 


	4. burning nights; Rhaella and Viserys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for allusions to rape and abuse.

The sun set late on warm nights like this one, and Rhaella liked to stand out on the balcony and watch the way the day ended.  The sun was almost the color of the Martell sigil and it hung perfectly round and low in the sky, and King’s Landing was so quiet, so peaceful for once…

And then screams shattered the sunset, and Rhaella’s nose picked up on the bittersweet scent of fire.  _Wildfire_.  She had not known Aerys was planning a burning, but it had been at least three days since she’d even looked upon his gaunt face, and it wasn’t as though he had ever shared his plans with her.  Plans were for Tywin and for his own sick mind, not sister-wives, not _women._

Burning days felt endless.  The screams, the smells, and then the stillness, the awful long silent stillness.  Then, the knock at the door and the creak of the latch, and the cracks in the ceiling she had long since put to memory, and the little dents in her mattress shaped just like her fingernails.

She drew herself to her full height and turned to leave the balcony, making sure not to look any of her maids in the eye, kind as they were.  Aerys would be much displeased if he came to her bedchamber only to find it empty—

 Her bare feet froze on the warm stone floor as she remembered that her bedchamber was _not_ empty, and she began to run, her feet smacking down the corridor and the sleeves of her robes fluttering like a butterfly gone mad.  _To the seven hells with dignity._ She thought she heard the murmurs of her maids behind her, but she couldn’t be sure, for her heartbeat sounded loudly in her ears, louder even than the screams of the burning man.

She pushed open the heavy door to her bedchamber.  There slept Viserys, his curls framing his face like soft summer clouds, his nightshirt buttoned up around his chin.  He was too old to share his mother’s bed, even Elia had quietly suggested as much, but Viserys sometimes had nightmares, and when she told him he could sleep in Mother’s bed, he smiled brighter than all the gold of Casterly Rock.  She shook his shoulder gently.

“Viserys, Viserys.”  One of his violet eyes opened, then the other.  “Wake up, my dragon.  You mustn’t stay in here tonight.”

He shook his head.

“Little dragon, please.”  She took his hand, which felt warm from sleep.  “Tonight you’ll sleep in your own bed.  Maybe tomorrow—”

“No!”  Viserys dropped her hand and made little fists.  “You promised, you said I could tonight!”

“Viserys, do as I say.”  She reached for him.  He flew under the covers and crawled toward the far edge of the bed.  Rhaella noticed that the man’s screaming had stopped.  Now came the stillness.

 _Perhaps if he finds his son in here, he’ll be ashamed.  He’ll slink away like the coward he is._ Rhaella shook her head to ward off this folly.  She didn’t know _what_ Aerys would do to her, to _them_ , when he entered her bedchamber with his eyes aglow and his hands half-clawed, and that was the worst thought of all.

She ran around to the lump at the edge of the bed and tore off the bedclothes.  Viserys had tears streaming down his cheeks, and the sight of this and the eerie silence in the Red Keep threatened to freeze Rhaella’s blood as it ran through her.  Still, _he mustn’t stay in here, he mustn’t, he needs to go!_   She picked him up off the mattress, though his legs were kicking and his hands were waving. 

“NOOOO,” he howled.  “You promised, you PROMISED!”  She felt a sharp sting on her forearm and looked down to see a thin trickle of blood forming on her skin.  The sight filled Rhaella with the coldest dread.  _Please, my sweet son, never scratch me again,_ she thought, too terrified to even say the words as any other mother might.

Sometimes it was too easy to remember that dragons had claws.  They were not made to be held, and life had taught her all too well that neither were they made to do the holding.

“I want to sleep in your bed!” Viserys sobbed, his small body shaking as Rhaella stumbled into the corridor.  “You said I could, you promised, you promised…”

 “Please,” she said, maneuvering Viserys into the arms of the nearest maid.  “Take him to his bed.  You can give him a sweet, that might help him stop crying.”  She smoothed his curls and squeezed his kicking feet.  “Don’t let him cry alone, please.  Stay with him til he stops.”  She kissed him on the cheek.  “Mother loves you so much, sweet dragon.”  His cries would not stop. “Dream of riding Silverwing high up into the sky, through the clouds and up til you can see all of Westeros, from Dorne all the way up to the Wall.”

“Silverwing is a _girl_ ,” Viserys wailed.  “I want _Balerion!_ ”

“Balerion, then,” Rhaella said, her voice breaking.  Despite her son’s cries, the silence was growing overpowering, _maddening_.  She darted back into the bedchamber and closed the door, leaning against it briefly to catch breath that would not come.

She hurriedly righted the bedclothes, then blew out the candle, slid out of her robe and crawled into bed, waiting in the heavy cold darkness, the warmth of the balcony gone from her body.

 _Perhaps this time will be different,_ she thought as she always did, pulling the covers up to her chin.  _Perhaps this time the Kingsguard will—_

But the Kingsguard could do nothing, and then came the knock at the door and the creak of the latch.


	5. Salsa Club; Brynden Tully/Oberyn

That ancient pianist out there has more energy than Brynden, despite his gym routine, can possibly dredge up, and the chords he’s pounding out are making Brynden feel lightheaded.

"Slow down, or at least let me loosen my tie, fuck," he whispers hoarsely as the music rattles his brain even through the coatroom wall.

"You think I brought you here to  _relax?_ " comes a smooth voice from between his legs, and Brynden looks down to see Oberyn with his black hair sweat-matted to his forehead and his lips red and swollen and brushing against the head of his cock, smirking right back up at him.


	6. triumph; Rhaella and Viserys

_In life, a mother wants her son to grow up strong and brave, handsome, healthy.  She wants him to live for a hundred years and more._

_In death, a mother wants her son’s life to flicker, gutter, and then burn out.  In death, a mother is selfish._

When the horse lord lifts his pot of gold over her little dragon’s head, Rhaella _feels_ something for the first time since she held her daughter in her weakened arms long ago, in another time.

It is the feeling of triumph, a feeling of which she’s heard much but tasted only the dregs. 

She stands beside him as he struggles in the arms of the Dothraki.  She does not enjoy the sensation of her arms passing through solid flesh, so she holds her hands above her son’s shoulders, hoping he can feel how near she is, how close…

_Don’t scream.  Little dragon, you always used to scream when I wasn’t by your side.  But I am right here now._

He screams.

His body slumps to the floor, a horse lord’s mockery mats his golden curls, and Rhaella has gotten what she wished for at last.


	7. Strikhedonia; Jaime

Jaime’s eyes burned from staring at the computer screen in his dark apartment, but there was no way he could look up this kind of shit in the light of day.  It would be too embarrassing.  And thank the gods Tyrion had taught him about Incognito Mode.  Even though big brothers were supposed to pass down their wisdom and all that bullshit, little brothers could be pretty useful sometimes.

He scrolled up and down the webpage, his eyes glancing over the glaring white background and trying to make sense of the fifth medical article he’d read that night.

_…greater risk of certain genetic disorders…_

_…increased likelihood of tuberculosis and other infectious pathogens…_

Jaime flopped back onto his unmade bed and pile of pillows that still smelled like Cersei’s shampoo from the last time she’d been over.  He rubbed his eyes.  He had the feeling he was getting in over his head here; fuck, he hadn’t even  _heard_ the word “consanguinity” until about a week ago, but…

Cersei would be so  _happy_.

"Fuck it," Jaime said out loud to the darkened apartment he’d been trying so hard to hide his research from.  "They have antibiotics for tuberculosis, right?"

It was 2:30 AM and Cersei didn’t like to be woken up unless it involved a part of Jaime’s body, but Jaime took the risk.  He hit 1 on his speed dial and listened to it ring, and ring, and ring, and then—

"Jaime?" Cersei whispered, half-asleep.

"Okay," he said back, whispering like a dumbass even though no one was around to hear him.

"Okay, what?"

"Let’s do it," he said, resting his nose against the most shampoo-scented pillow.  "That  _thing_ we’ve been talking about.  Let’s do it.”  He waited a second.  He heard Cersei breathing heavily at the other end of the line.  ”It’s kind of cool that we already know what it’s gonna look like…right?


	8. High School AU; Arthur/Jaime

Jaime usually thinks poetry is boring and totally pointless.  Even Cersei has given up on reading it to him.  But this all changes his first day of sophomore year, when he walks into English class and sees that his lax coach also teaches English.  Coach Dayne is now Mr. Dayne during the day.  And everything is different.

 _I bet you didn’t know I loved poetry_ , Mr. Dayne says to Jaime one day after practice as Jaime’s walking toward the locker room.  He punches Jaime in the shoulder and smiles. Jaime flushes an uncomfortable red and it’s  _not_ because he was just sweating. 

It’s just that now Jaime has more chances to stare at the guy, now that he’s  _Mr._ Dayne and wears deep purple dress shirts and black jeans and a thin leather belt to class, and Jaime can watch his biceps work as he writes on the board.  He can watch the way his lips curl as he reads Iago’s lines from  _Othello_.  He can listen to the words Mr. Dayne reads aloud, how he can make them  _gallop_  like fucking  _horses_ through the room.  And as Jaime crosses his legs and holds his notebook over his lap, he forgets to feel ashamed.

When Mr. Dayne asks them to write an ode to someone they admire, Jaime writes about violet eyes before remembering to make them emerald.


	9. Washing the Kittens; AU; Myrcella and Tommen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for CommaSplice. This is a sequel to a drabble in my November Drabbles series, which you can find on here as well.

Mother is out with Uncle Jaime at a baseball game (Mother hates sports, but when Uncle Jaime takes her to a game she always smiles and acts like it’s her favorite thing in the world and it confuses Myrcella so much) so that means Joff’s in charge.  But  _Joff’s in charge_  means he just blasts his bad music and smokes pot and Skypes with girls all day, so Myrcella and Tommen are in charge of each other, and they’re good at that, thank you  _very_  much. 

Myrcella’s in her room today, though, sitting cross-legged on her bed with the door shut so Ser Pounce and Boots and Lady Whiskers can’t come in.  She’s dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.  There’s a whole pile of them on the floor.  Her eyes won’t stop tearing up.  She’s sad and she’s  _allergic_ and her nose won’t stop running and her eyes are itchy and red.  Tommen’s been crying, too.  She thinks even Mother is sad; she’s been so nice since they went to the allergist, and hasn’t sounded impatient once.  It’s just Joff who doesn’t care. He doesn't like cats, anyway.

“Cella?”  Tommen is standing outside her door.  He always waits to be invited in.  “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure,” Myrcella says.  Tommen trots in holding Mother’s laptop in his hands.  It’s almost too big for him.

“What are you doing?” Myrcella gasps.  “You’re not supposed to touch that!”  Mother’s laptop is  _super_ forbidden.  It even has a password on it, just in case.  Tommen has to use Myrcella’s if he wants to do anything on the computer.  He’s begging Uncle Tyrion to buy him his own for Christmas.

“I know, but I wanted to look up some stuff, and you and Joff both had your doors closed.”

“How’d you figure out the password?”

“She left it on.”  Tommen giggles and climbs up onto Myrcella’s bed.  “Anyway, look, Cella, look what I found.”

Tommen’s cheeks are pink and he’s smiling so big.  He points at the screen so fast he actually touches the screen, leaving a smudgy fingerprint.  “It’s going to be okay, see?  We can wash the kittens so they won’t be as bad for you!  It says so right here.”

The website has a list of “Five ways to prevent cat allergies,” and number three suggests washing cats two to three times a week.

“We have to wash three kittens two to three times a week?" Myrcella gasps.  "I can't even imagine washing one of them one time a  _month_.  They hate taking baths."

Tommen's face is so serious now.  "But Cella, if we try it, then maybe we won't have to give them up.  They're  _my_ kittens.  I don't want to give them away."

Myrcella nods.  "I love them too.  I don't want to give them away either."  She jumps up, tossing her tissue into the pile on the floor.  "Let's try it."

"Yay!"  Tommen jumps up too.  "You're so cool, Cella.  You're my favorite sister."

"I'm your  _only_  sister, Tomtom," Myrcella says.  "You better put Mother's laptop away first, though.  And wipe off the screen, cause that smudge is gross."

She heads to the bathroom to get the water running in the tub.

And so when Mother and Uncle Jaime come back from the baseball game, laughing and smelling like popcorn and fresh air and something kind of like sour bread, they're greeted by Myrcella and Tommen, soaking wet with three soaked kittens who smell more than a little like fancy shampoo.

 


	10. Valentine's Day; Roose/Walda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Valentine's Day drabble for crookedneighbour

It’s not like Roose to look nervous, but when he holds out the package, Walda thinks his face is  _extremely_  pale.  Paler than usual.  She’d find it cute if she wasn’t too busy wondering what’s in the little white flimsy box.

"I hope they’re the right size,"  Roose says.  His funny eyes seem calm, but he looks like he’s both travelling her body and trying not to meet her gaze.  "If not, I have the gift receipt, so you may return them when it’s convenient."

"Ooooh.  Can I open them now?"

"Yes," Roose says, and turns his back on her.

"What’s  _that_ for?”

"I would like to be surprised by your reaction."

Roose is…well, he can be a weird guy sometimes, but Walda likes weird.  Weird is fun.  She tosses the box lid onto the ground and pulls out wad after wad of hot pink tissue paper.  It looks like Roose robbed a Victoria’s Secret.  It reminds her of those prank gifts Ami would give her every year on Christmas when they were kids.  It’s—

Walda’s hand hits fabric.  She pulls out a pair of panties, bikini cut, light pink with a bright red strawberry print.  There’s another pair: hot pink with light pink hearts.  A third pair is all lace, light pink lace with a white ribbon on the waistband.

Walda knows that if she giggles Roose will be annoyed.  He takes everything so seriously, even buying cute and sexy underwear in all her favorite colors.  But the giggle is creeping up her throat, hurting her chest, and she has to bite her lips to hold it back.

"Are they to your liking, Walda?" Roose asks, his back still to her.  He’s  _nervous,_ he’s got to be.  It’s cute how weird he gets, it really is.

Walda quickly steps out of the skirt and underwear she’s been wearing and lets them pool on the ground.  She pulls the strawberry pair up over her legs.  They fit great.  They feel good.

She walks over to Roose and wraps her arms around him, pushing her strawberry-covered hips into his back.

"I want to know what  _you_ think,” she says.


	11. Spilled Seed; Roose/Tywin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for crookedneighbour!

"Such a mess," Roose chides, his voice barely above a whisper.  His voice is rarely loud, but it seems to Tywin as though Roose is talking even quieter than usual so that Tywin must strain to hear his admonishment over the branches that are rustling in the full spring breeze.

Tywin feels how hot his cheeks are burning.   _Lannister colors,_ he thinks, gritting his teeth.  He takes no solace in this thought.  The humiliation is unbearable.

"You really must be more careful," Roose whispers.  "More discreet.  This must be terribly embarrassing for you."

"Yes," Tywin says through his teeth.

"You really must learn to control yourself in public.  I would have thought a man like you would know to be a bit more…"  Roose gestures quickly at the mess.  "A bit more careful."

Tywin turns to shield the humiliation from a woman passing by.  Still she stares for a moment, just a moment.

"Clean up, please, I’d hate to think of you as someone who leaves a mess."

Tywin gets to his knees.  Humiliating, humiliating, having to bend down by Roose’s feet in public to clean up the zinnias, pansies, and hydrangeas, all those seeds he’d so carelessly spilled.


	12. Warm Knights; Brienne/Sansa

The days are cold; they have left blue skies behind long ago, and each morning awakes her with a color as craggy and unforgiving as the Eyrie itself.  She is a sweet summer child, it is true, Sansa-then-Alayne-now-Sansa-once-more reminds herself.  She has yet to know a winter like the one trickling its tendrils down the road before them.

But her nights are warm.  Like the disappearance of blue skies, she cannot remember the last time she dreamt burnt faces, rough hands, stolen kisses.  Alayne, who clung to those memories, would have thought their absence would leave her frozen like a stone.

But her nights are warm.

Her  _knights_ are warm.

"I hope you will sleep well tonight, my lady," Brienne says each evening.  She always smooths out the ground before she spreads the blanket out, making sure there are no tree roots or rocks hidden under the curling brown leaves.  She makes sure Sansa’s head is comfortable on whatever she has rolled up to create a pillow.  Only then does she take her place on the blanket next to Sansa.

Of late the surprising knight has taken to draping her arm around Sansa’s stomach, first leaving it still, but then one night asking

"My lady, if I may ask…may I…"  Sansa could almost  _feel_ her blush in the darkness.  ”May I…touch you here?”

Sansa hesitated.  Had anyone ever asked this question of her before?  Perhaps it would be nice to have the sort of touch that was  _asked_ about.

"If you do not will it, I’ll move my hand at once, my—"

"No, please," Sansa said, and Brienne was not the only one who was blushing.  "I’d like it very—very much."

Now those big, broad hands, stronger and safer than any man’s, stroke Sansa’s stomach softly each night, and Sansa burns with a summer blaze no winter wind, no cold grey sky can possibly dampen.


	13. Hold My Hand; Joanna/Rhaella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!

Jo doesn’t realize how often she sees this girl everywhere til the girl’s walking over to her all alone, staring just a little too intently and bumping her hips into every chair along the way.

“Watch out,” Nym whispers in Jo’s ear.  “She’s coming for you.”

Jo’s been seeing her everywhere like a ghost, a hallucination.  The girl pulls her pale hair into a ponytail ahead of Jo on the line for dried-out burgers and steamed veggies at the caf.  Her hands shake as she strains to reach the fancy bottles of whiskey that they keep on the high-up shelves up at Redwyne’s Liquor.  She comes to this very same shitty college dive bar every night and sits outside by the Dumpsters with those weird kids who laugh too loud, talk too quiet, definitely do coke off the graffitied-up sinks, and burn their creepy, pale ringleader’s arms with their cigarettes while he smirks.  One time the guy winked at Jo; now she stays far the fuck away.

And now the same girl’s walking over towards Jo, her silver hair sweat-clinging to her forehead.  Jo brushes her own back off her face.  She’s got a good face.

“Hi,” the girl yells over all the noise in the place. “My name’s Rhaella.”

“What?” Jo yells back.

“Rhaella.   _Rhae-lla_ ,” she says, and holds out her thin hand for Jo to shake.  Jo shakes it.  It’s like she’s firming up a business deal here at the Last Call Bar & Live Entertainment (not that Jo’s ever seen any Live Entertainment there, other than the guys from Beta sometimes puking on themselves).   

“I’m Joanna.  Jo.”

“I want to buy you a drink.”

 

“We don’t even know you.”  Nym drapes her arm across Jo’s shoulders.  “Jo doesn’t drink shit strangers give her.”  Nym’s lips peck her on the cheek, and Jo shrugs her arm off. “She’s smart like that.”

“Just a beer.  Straight from the bottle.  Please?” Rhaella pouts.  Her eyes look purple in the neon light coming from behind the bar.  She’s very  _purple_.  There’s a bruise a few shades darker just below her collarbone.  “I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, but I’m always here with my brother, and he makes fun of me.”

“Yeah, I’d love one,” Jo says.  “I’m pretty thirsty.”

“Awesome,” Rhaella says, and walks over to where the bartender’s flirting with a girl with acne and bad bangs.  Next to Jo, Nym sighs.  “She’s going to have her hands in your panties by the time this night is over.”

“Or maybe I’ll have mine in hers,” Jo says.  She’s getting a little wet at the thought, and crosses her legs.

“Gerold Hightower just came in,” Nym says.  She shakes her dark curls out and over her shoulders.  “Do I look okay?  Is it cool if I go over and talk to him?  I don’t really feel like being the third wheel tonight, no offense.”

“It’s fine,” Jo says.  She gives Nym a little shove forward.  “Good luck.”

Rhaella comes back with a Coors, which Jo doesn’t usually drink, but now’s probably not the time to mention that.  She’s got on a flannel shirt and a white tank underneath it, and a heavy-looking dragon pendant is hanging down between her braless tits.  Jo doesn’t know whether to feel overdressed in her denim skirt, or distracted by Rhaella’s nipples.  One of them is hard underneath her shirt, and it’s asymmetrical and adorable.

“Where’s your drink?” Jo asks.  “Was I supposed to buy  _you_ one?”

“No,” Rhaella says.  “I drank a lot earlier.  I—I was nervous.”

“What were you nervous about?”

I thought maybe you wouldn’t, you know.”  She gestures at the bottle of Coors.  “I thought you wouldn’t say yes.”  She stares down at her lap.  “I keep noticing you on campus.  You have such pretty hair, it looks so good in the sunlight, I—”  She stops.  She bites her lips.

“I keep noticing you too,” Jo says.  “Don’t worry.”

The familiar chords that open that song that’s been everywhere all summer blast through the speakers, and everyone in the place who’s had more than one drink cheers.  Some people start singing.

_With a little love, and some tenderness, we’ll walk upon the water, we’ll rise above this mess…_

“Hold My Hand!” Rhaella shouts.  “I love this song.”

“This whole place loves this song,” Jo says.  “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”

“You know what, fine.”  Rhaella’s smiling big and Jo’s somewhat convinced she actually has purple eyes.  “I’ll have one.”

As the chorus comes on and Jo waves the bartender over, Rhaella squeezes her hand underneath the counter.

_Hold my hand, want you to hold my hand!_

_Hold my hand, I’ll take you to a place where you can be_

Jo’s not surprised, later, when she finds herself in the backseat of Rhaella’s red, new-smelling car, running her hands up Rhaella’s stomach, playing with the ring in her belly button, cupping her small tits and squeezing each hard nipple.  She’s not surprised when Rhaella bites and licks her way up her neck, when her kisses turn out to be rough and sloppy and full of tongue, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been holding something back and then finally break free.

_Hold my hand, anything you wanna be, because_

“Can I?” Rhaella says, her fingers drawing soft circles along the leg opening of Joanna’s panties.

Jo’s skin is prickling and tingling all over.  She slides her palm in between Rhaella’s legs and Rhaella groans, her eyes flickering shut.

“Only if I can too,” she says, and Rhaella’s nodding frantically before Jo’s even done talking, and as fingers start circling her clit, dipping down into her slit and back up again to get it slick and slippery and  _oh,_ Jo realizes she can’t get the damn song out of her head—

_I wanna love you, the best that, the best that I can…_


	14. Kiss in the Rain; Viserys, Rhaella, Aerys, Rhaenys

Viserys and Mother and the bump in her belly leave for Dragonstone on the morrow and it rains and rains and rains and rains even more.  All Viserys wants to do is go out and play in the godswood one more time.  All Viserys wants to do is  _stay home_ _._

"The sky is crying because it will miss us in King’s Landing," he explains to Mother that morning.  She is wrapped up tight in her cloak as she lays on her side in bed, her feet resting on a pile of pillows.  She must be cold, Viserys thinks, worried.  The rain makes the old stone walls of the holdfast his ancestors built feel damp and cool.  He says it again, to make sure she understands what he is trying to say.

"The same sky will watch us as we travel to Dragonstone," Mother says.  She sounds tired, almost cross.  "The sky is wide and mighty, and we are lucky to have a place to go to stay safe and warm.  Many do not.  You are getting too old to be so childish."

Viserys’s lips begin to quiver.  He doesn’t even know what Mother means, exactly.  Why are they so unsafe?

"I am sorry, my sweet dragon," Mother says.  "I feel unwell.  I should not have gotten cross with you.  Come, let me comb your hair."  She takes his hand.

Viserys wriggles out of Mother’s grasp and races out of the room, thundering down the halls as he loves to do.  He will find Father and try once more to convince him.  Father dreams more than Mother does.  He tells stories when Mother will not.  He might understand what it means to think the sky is crying.

Father sits in one of his audience chambers, telling himself stories in a soft voice the way he does sometimes.  The Kingsguard greet Viserys.  Father does not.  He is telling a story.  Viserys hates to interrupt, but he must.

"Father?"

Father carefully reaches out and lays his palms on Viserys’s cheeks, taking care to keep his fingernails away.  No one else in the room has fingernails like Father, least of all Viserys.  He supposes it must be the right of a King, to grow his nails as short or long as he likes.  Nobody tells a King what to do.  Nobody tells a King where to move.

"Father, have you looked outside?  The sky is crying.  It wants us to stay here in King’s Landing, with you and with Elia and Rhaenys and even stupid Aegon."

Behind his great beard Viserys can tell father is frowning.  ”You’re a child, Viserys,” he snaps.  ”You think as a child does, not as a dragon.  You are my heir, now.  Would I leave my heir here as Robert Baratheon and his army of ass-lickers bear down on my city like a pack of drunken boars?”

"But Father—"

Father is starting to rant, now, his eyes more flame than violet.  ”Would I leave you here to wonder if Tywin Lannister will stop wringing his hands deep within Casterly Rock and come to my aid?  Absolutely not.  You will go to Dragonstone with your mother and the babe.  See that you have a sister.”

"But  _Father_ _—!”_

"Sweet son, if you argue further, you will  _wake the dragon_ ,” Father says, his hands trembling, and Viserys bows his head and backs out of the room.  He has never woken the dragon, and does not want to begin so soon before he leaves.

He bursts out into the rain.  It pours down so hard from the sky that there is almost no one outside.  He wants to stomp his feet and work up a wail.  This is not how it should be!

"Viserys!"  Rhaenys runs to him and flings herself around his leg.  Where had she come from?

"Your mother lets you play out in the rain?"

"No," Rhaenys says.  "I wanted to see."  She lifts up her face to the rain.  Her dark hair is soaking wet.  "I don’t  _want_  you to go.”

"I don’t want to go either."

"I want you to stay here."

"They won’t let me."

"But I  _want_ you to stay here!”

"I do too, but they won’t let me.  I have to go with Mother."

Rhaenys throws her hands up in the air.  ”It feels like the sky is crying,” she says.

Viserys can’t help it.  He picks her up, heavy as she is getting, and kisses her firmly on the cheek.

"It  _is_  crying, isn’t it?” he says.  ”I will cry just like this, tomorrow, when I have to leave you.” _  
_

"Don’t cry," Rhaenys says.  "I will see you soon.  After the new baby."

"You are right," Viserys says, but the sky is crying so hard he isn’t quite sure he agrees.


	15. Kiss on the Collarbone; Arthur/Jaime

Arthur Dayne may do as he pleases, and what he pleases to do after each sunset is Jaime Lannister, sprawled on his back on the hard bed in Arthur’s cell.

His Majesty the King had a hard day, and when a King suffers, so too must his Kingsguard.  Arthur’s body stayed tensed, quivered, poised, throughout the afternoon and evening; now he delights in imagining the sheen of sweat that awaits him under Jaime’s garments.  The youngest Kingsguard had looked quite worried as he stood alert alongside the Iron Throne.  _But he will become accustomed to it soon,_  Arthur thinks,  _with my help._

Arthur looses his white cloak and drapes it over the same chair where Jaime’s has already been carefully splayed.  He moves to the bed, where Jaime awaits dutifully, and straddles him.  The younger knight pants slightly as Arthur leans down for a kiss.  When he takes Jaime’s golden curls in his fist, Jaime parts his lips and allows Arthur to caress his tongue with his own.

"Are you hot?"

"Terribly, ser," Jaime breathes.  Arthur moves to remove his tunic.  Underneath his clothing, Jaime’s flesh is rosy, redder than his pink nipples.

"I am afraid I will be keeping you warm all night," Arthur whispers, planting a soft kiss on Jaime’s collarbone while slowly rolling the bulge in his breeches against the matching bulge in Jaime’s.


	16. Kiss in the Rain; Cersei/Jaime

Everything is running, running, running, mascara is running down Cersei’s face and black dye is most likely running out of her black blazer and bleeding into her white blouse and water is pooling on the ground and running through the dead cemetery leaves ( _dead leaves for dead people, dead dead dead_ ) and she wants to run, too, she thinks she will, she’ll run right now, right out of this fucking place and into the nearest bar, where she’ll dry her clothes off the best she can with the bathroom hand dryer and then go drink their finest til she forgets who she is.

How can she turn her back, though, on Mother’s old grave and Father’s freshly-dug one?  These were the people who raised her, who taught her how to be  _Cersei Lannister,_ and she can’t, she  _can’t—_

She begins to walk backwards, unsteady on her feet, feeling a laugh build up in her throat.  How can she ever turn around?  Mother and Father are together forever, now, just like they always wanted.  It’s a beautiful sight, a fucking  _beautiful_ sight.

"Cersei," Jaime says.  Cersei has almost forgotten he’s with her.  His hair looks funny, plastered to his head by the pouring rain.  She imagines hers must look the same,  They are always the same.

"You’re gonna hurt yourself," he says.  "Stop doing that."  He takes her into his arms and kisses her.  He’s hungry and fierce.  His mouth pries hers open.  He lifts one of her legs around him and groans into her mouth.  She cups his jaw, trying to pull him away.

"No, stop," she says, " _stop_ —”

"They’re not looking anymore, they’re not looking, Cers, it’s okay," he says, and he repeats it over and over again, over and over, "They’re not looking, they’re not looking anymore," until it becomes just as steady as the rain, as soothing as the rain.


	17. Basorexia, Modern AU; Dany/Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basorexia: a strong craving or hunger for kissing.

It’s wrong, is what it is, it’s  _wrong;_ Jaime isn’t used to noticing women who aren’t his sister, and this one is—is she even a  _woman_?  Is she even legal?

It would have to be his boss’s daughter who was making the front of his suit pants uncomfortable, it would have to be.

"I haven’t seen you in a while, Dany," Jaime says, trying to look into her purple eyes instead of staring at the way the dragon fabric of her dress shimmered as it clung to her body.  "How’s it been going?"  He reaches his hand out for a handshake.  Dany sweeps past it and goes in for a hug.  It’s a tight hug, like she means it.

"If you want the truth, Mr. Lannister—"

“ _Jaime_.”

"I’m bored.  I hate Dad’s Christmas parties.  I’ve been trying to find an excuse to get out of here before they start taking photos for the company Christmas card."

"You don’t like photo ops?"  Jaime wouldn’t mind a photo of Dany Targaryen on his fridge, or somewhere a little less public so Cersei wouldn’t notice and get huffy.

"I hate having to stand next to Dad and pretend we’re a normal, loving Christian family."  Jaime’s trying to focus on what Dany’s saying, but the way she says each word is killing him.  Her lips form each word so carefully.  What else could those lips do carefully?  "We don’t even celebrate Christmas.  Before dinner Dad says thanks to someone named Balerion."  She shakes her head and gives Jaime a little smile.  "I’m sorry, I must seem totally weird saying all this stuff."

"You didn’t visit the open bar a few times, by any chance?"  Jaime winks.  He’s past caring if he seems like a creep.

"I might have."

"My sister would be proud."  

From a corner of the room, a man with a camera starts yelling, “If we could please have the Targaryen family gather—”

Dany’s face falls and Jaime grabs her by the arm, pulling her toward an exit.  ”Come on,” he says.  ”I’ll get you out of here.”

He leads her down the silent hall of the Targaryen Industries building, past rows of screensavers of three-headed dragons that bounce and expand and contract and blur together because his heart’s beating so fast that he’s  _nervous._ He leads her to the elevator bank and up two floors to a conference room. _  
_

"I like to come in here when I’m bored," he says, shutting the door softly as Dany _oohs_  at the sight of the city glittering below them.  ”It’s a sweet view, isn’t it?”

"It would be better if I could see your face," Dany says.  Jaime’s glad it’s impossible to see his erection in the dark.  "Ugh.  I can’t believe I said that.  I’m so sorry."

"No, you’re right," Jaime says, taking off his suit jacket and then slipping his arm around her shoulders.  "It would be better if  _I_ could see  _your_ face.  But I’ll have to settle for feeling it instead, I guess.”

"That’s not so bad," Dany murmurs, and then she’s standing on her tiptoes as Jaime rests his hand in her silvery hair and their lips press together and Jaime thinks that’s the biggest understatement he’s ever heard.


	18. lost to history; Jaehaerys II and Shaera

Her husband pleads by the side of her bed, but she no longer wishes to hear his pleas.   _Soon, soon._   They would soon be gone.  She breathes in, inviting another fit of coughs that rattle in her chest and shake her down to her toes.

When she is done, her husband still talks, his thin lips dry.   _He will forget to take care of himself._

"Please, don’t leave me," he begs.  "You must be strong.  You can’t leave, me, we—"  He stops, but she knows what he longs to repeat.   _We married for love_.  For love indeed, for love, just like his foolish father before him, and for what?

She tries to take shallow breaths as she speaks.  ”You must take care of the children,” she implores.  ”See that they are happy and healthy.  See that they grow up to have everything they have ever wanted.  They should have everything.”

"Why would you tire yourself worrying about these things?"  Her husband’s purple eyes have gone wide.  They are shot through with red, ringed by dark.  "They will be safe and loved, just as they are now.  They are here among family.  You’ll worry yourself into the grave if you think like this, you must be strong—"

 _Soon, soon_.  She has never seen her dreams come true, yet even when she would watch her children chase each other through the sunny yard in ways that did not befit a Prince and Princess, even ones that would like as not never rise to the Iron Throne, with her daughter in a dragon hat and her son wielding a toy sword so big his small arms could scarce lift it, she saw shadows everywhere around them.

They will grow old within these festering walls, red for the history of their House, red for the blood that spilled to build them, and they will do so without a mother to protect them from that rot and that decay someday caving in, spilling down atop their moonlight hair, burying them alive.

_He will try his hardest, yet he will fail somehow.  He will fail without truly realizing._

She takes a breath to speak once more. Instead, she coughs til her vision dims and she thinks she sees thin, white arms reaching out to her; whether they are her husband’s, her children’s, or the welcome of the Stranger, she will never be able to say.


	19. Harry Potter AU; Maegor/Aenys

Aenys’s wand is thin and slender.   _Just like his cock_ , Maegor thinks, and decides he’ll break it in half sometime over the holidays, when Mother and Father and Rhaenys aren’t looking.  Whether “it” means his wand or his cock, Maegor hasn’t decided yet.

Rhaenys is covering Aenys’s pasty face with kisses and Father is ruffling his golden curls.  They got even longer while he was at Hogwarts and now he looks even more like a  _girl_ than he usually does.  Mother coughs and clears her throat.  She’d never make a fuss in public, but she’s holding a present for Aenys underneath her arm, and Maegor doesn’t ever remember getting presents from Mother except for on namedays and Christmas.  He thinks about running away; who needs a Squib in their family, especially if they have a golden magical son to replace him?  But he won’t run away, won’t give them the satisfaction.  He’s afraid they wouldn’t even miss him.

Mother holds out a set of shiny blue and purple robes.  They’re ugly and they remind Maegor of bruises; they’re perfect for Aenys, then.  ”I thought these were appropriately Ravenclaw.  Try them on?”

Aenys is putting on shiny robes in the middle of King’s Cross and Father is smiling proudly and Maegor sees red.  He’d punch someone,  _anyone_ in the face if not for Father and Mother standing there.

"Can you hurry this up?"  Orys has joined them from where he’s been guarding their Portkey outside in the rain.  His black curls are soaked but even like that he looks less stupid than Aenys with his long hair and robes and wand.  "It’s getting hard to stop little kids from touching the inflatable dragon.  You might want to consider a different Portkey next time."

"Fair enough," laughs Father.  "Shall we head out?"  And they walk out of King’s Cross, Father holding Aenys and Rhaenys’s hands, Mother pushing the luggage trolley because Mother doesn’t need to hold anyone’s hand.

Maegor hangs back.

"Hey."  Orys cuffs him on the shoulder.  "You’re getting strong, aren’t you?  That’s a big muscle there."  He pulls a Mars bar out of his pocket.  "I figured you’d be feeling like shit today, so here.  Got this for you outside."

"Thanks, man," Maegor says, already stuffing the candy into his mouth.  The chocolate makes him feel better, better in the way  _he_ likes to feel.  So what if Aenys spent all his days at school waving around something that looked kind of like a dick?  Nothing else had to change.

"Give me that wand," Maegor mutters to Aenys once they were outside in the rain.

"His name is Quicksilver, and I’m not giving him to you," Aenys snots.  "You can’t even use him."

He stands on his tiptoes before Maegor can do anything else and whispers in Maegor’s ear.

"I missed you."

Maegor warms with satisfaction.  The rain no longer feels cold.  Good old Aenys.  He’s still such a good little brother, such a good boy, and Maegor will make sure to tell him that tonight.


	20. foreplay at the office; Dany/Jaime

"Do we have to do this in my  _dad’s office?_ " Dany wailed, even though her head was already starting to nod against the cushiony leather as Jaime rubbed her clit through her panties just fast enough to betray his urge to rip her clothes off and fuck her right there. _  
_

"The better question is since when does your dad listen to Yeezus?" Jaime said, raising the volume on the computer while taking Dany’s wrist with his other hand and putting it right on his cock.

"He has weird taste…" Dany said, already distracted by the way Jaime’s erection felt underneath the smooth front of his suit pants.  She undid the pants and slipped her hand inside; when she felt that his tip was already damp, she smiled and began to rub her thumb over it in little circles. 

"I hope his taste extends to having condoms in his desk drawer," Jaime mumbled, his eyelids fluttering open and closed, open and closed over his beautiful green eyes, "because I’m gonna fuck you right here,  _I Am A God_ turns me on.”


	21. Three Sentence Fic, Modern AU; Aerys/Cersei

“You remind me of your mother,” he says every time he comes over, his strange silver hair splayed all over the pillows and his disgusting fingernails clawing her bare thighs.

Cersei doesn’t remember much about her mother.  She’ll put up with him just to feel closer to her.


	22. the lions take the carnival; Cersei/Jaime

Cersei hadn’t enjoyed herself at a carnival since she was too young to know better, and this afternoon was no exception.  She didn’t care much for the screaming children or the dizzying rides or the smell of one thousand funnel cakes stewing in fat, so she was bored out of her mind, with nothing to do except pull out her phone and scroll through Taena’s countless photos of her own face (Taena claimed they were “makeup tutorials,” but Cersei saw right through the bullshit). 

Joff had run into the Tyrell girl and taken her off to the Ferris wheel with a  _Maybe we’ll get stuck at the top_ and a wink; Tyrion had gone with Myrcella into the fortune-teller’s tent because Cersei wouldn’t touch that sort of thing with a ten-foot pole; and Jaime was off teaching Tommen how to play shooting games.  This left Cersei to kick at some spilled nachos with the rapidly-smudging toe of her brown riding boot, and remember the last carnival she’d enjoyed, when she and Jaime were ten or eleven. Jaime had won her a green plastic necklace.  The beads were shiny and clear, and when he’d slipped it around her neck he’d whispered  _These look like our eyes._ That night Father had taken it away from her, saying Lannisters did not wear plastic.   _If you want real jewelry, I’ll buy you some._

“Mother, Mother!”  Tommen was running up to her screaming, his smile huge and his chubby cheeks flushed.  “Look what I got!  Look what I got!”  He shoved something furry into Cersei’s face.  It was a stuffed cat.  The eyes were sewn on lopsided and the stitching on the mouth made the thing look like it was grimacing.  Cersei could sympathize.

“Did you win that all by yourself?” Cersei asked.

“With a little help from Uncle Jaime.”  Jaime scooped Tommen up and spun him around.

“Uncle Jaime’s a good shooter!” Tommen squealed, his legs kicking in the air.

 _Uncle_ Jaime plopped Tommen down and fished in his pockets.  They must have looked like a family, Cersei thought, the husband and wife and excited little blonde son.  She had to remind herself that they _were_ a family, in ways that would make geneticists reach for a barf bag.  ( _And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it_?)

“I have a few ride tickets left,” Jaime said.  “Let’s go on the carousel, all three of us.”

“YES!”  Tommen jumped up.  Cersei had to fight the impulse to tell him to be quieter.  She smoothed his hair instead.

“Why don’t you two go and I’ll meet you?” Cersei said.  “I hate carousels.”

Jaime grinned one of his beautiful golden grins.  “Come on, sweet sister.”  He leaned close to her ear.  “You know I love watching you ride.”

Cersei could have killed him.

There were only two spots left for them on the carousel; Jaime explained to the sweating ticket-taker that Tommen would be riding on Cersei’s lap, but when it came time to choose horses Tommen clambered up onto a pink-and –blue one, leaving Cersei and Jaime to squish onto a medium-sized horse with peeling gold paint.

“You  _planned_  this,” Cersei hissed as Jaime slid behind her on the rickety horse.  Its neck was flush against her front, and it felt as though she could feel every bit of muscle in Jaime’s strong thighs tensing as he straddled her right there for everyone to see.  If she wasn’t careful, she’d blush, and that wasn’t a good look for her.  Cersei Lannister didn’t  _blush._

“Nah.  It was just a lucky coincidence.”  The carousel lurched and cringe-inducing carnival music started blasting.  Cersei swore she could pick out Tommen’s excited shriek from all the others.

“Woah,” Jaime whispered in her ear. “These things aren’t such a smooth ride, huh?”  He wrapped his arm around her waist.

She gave it a small shove, nudging it down so it rested around her hips.

“Mmmm,” Jaime said.  “I love carnivals.  Don’t you, sweet sister?”

“You’re an asshole.”  She smiled and wiggled against him, shutting him up before he could drop a  _takes one to know one!_ “And you’re making it up to me tonight.”

“That’ll be my favorite part,” Jaime whispered.

Cersei smiled.  This part wasn’t so bad, either.


	23. in their cups; Aerys/Tywin

They’re in their cups, the both of them, and they decide to retire to one of their chambers so they can be as undignified as they like with no eyes upon them.  They’re both so very far in their cups, though, faces flushed and lips and teeth purpled by Arbor red of an unknown vintage, that they cannot quite remember who is King and who is Hand.  They wonder, as they stumble through the courtyard, exactly where they should go.

“ _Rhae-lla,”_ the King says, keeping the word so long on his tongue he’s either savoring it, mocking it, or trying not to slur his speech the way a King ought not to.  “We don’t want to see  _Rhae-lla_.  Let’s go.”  He points at the Tower of the Hand.  He tugs on the Hand’s golden curls.

“And why not, your grace?” asks the Hand, leaning on the King’s shoulder, or is it the King who is leaning on the Hand’s shoulder?  “Don’t you want to do your duty and give your Rhaegar a little brother or sister?”  He sounds on the verge of laughter, the way he never does during the day, not during meetings of the small council, not even when he whispers in the King’s ear during these meetings and the King breaks into a grin, his dark eyes shining with mirth that is  _theirs_ and theirs alone.

“Let’s go to  _your_ apartments.”  He runs his stained lips over the Hand’s fingers.  “So it can be _just us._ ”

“We were alone before, your grace.”  The Hand sounds as though he has said these words before.

“Not the way I like it.”

His voice echoes off crenellations and cobblestone.

“Your grace, you’ve drank too much again…”

“So have  _you_ , Tywin.”  A pause.  “And call me  _Aerys._ ”

They enter the Tower of the Hand as one, arms about each other’s waists, but do not make it far.  They pause in the staircase for their lips to come together, as happens every time they’ve had too much wine.  The King traces the workings of the Hand’s jaw as their mouths move.  The Hand drives a thigh between the King’s legs.  He whimpers, his face flushing in the shadows.  There is a whisper.  Who it is from is hard to say; it could be from anyone.  They are one.

_Please._

 


	24. Triumph; Elia, Ashara, Lyanna

It’s raining when Elia comes out of the courthouse.  It’s  _pouring_ and her nice, new red flats are getting soaked.  People from the Crownlands might call themselves  _southron_  but Elia’s from the real South.  And it doesn’t rain much in Dorne.

She knows she made the right decision, of course, even his family thinks she made the right decision, but she’s there all alone in the rain with her babies far away at home with Ellaria and her beautiful new shoes filing up with water.  She walks resolutely toward the curb, trying to hear  _unbowed, unbent, unbroken_ in every squelching footstep, but she…She doesn’t want to be  _alone_.

A tiny red car screeches up in front of her, and Elia’s heart leaps into her sudden smile. 

Lyanna’s yelling out the window before it’s even finished rolling down.  “Hey, sexy, want a ride?”

Ashara’s in the backseat with a blanket and a hug.  “We’re staying overnight.  We already talked to Ellaria, and she’s all right with everything, so Lyanna booked us a room at the Crownlands Spa.”

Lyanna groans from the driver’s seat. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” Elia says.  “I know you hate spas, Lyanna.  But both of you, you really, really didn’t have to do this.”

“You did what you needed to do to take care of yourself,” Ashara says.  “So we’re going to take care of you for a little bit.”

“Mmm-hmm, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it,” Lyanna adds.  “Rhaegar’s going to be spending tonight crying on his harp, and  _you’re_ gonna be with  _us_.”

But Elia doesn’t care what Rhaegar’s doing.  She never needs to think about it again.  She did it.  She’s done.

 


	25. Christmas Gifts; Lancel and Taena

Lancel fidgets with his headphones and checks his watch for the fifth time.  She’s 20 minutes late and his hot chocolate is almost gone.  He stares at the Christmas designs on the cheery red cup.  A cold wind blows into the Starbucks every time someone opens the door (which is happening quite often, considering he’s picked a Starbucks in Midtown during a weekday) and his new green sweater is not doing enough to keep him warm.  He’d put his coat back on, but then he’d look like a stupid kid.  Lancel is starting to hate Christmas.

He smells her before he sees her.  He’s only met Taena Merryweather a few times, but the perfume she uses is unforgettable.  It’s spicy and floral and makes him remember tropical vacations during February school break.  He wonders if Taena and Cersei ever stand around _smelling_ each other, with their noses first in each other’s’ long hair, then sliding down each other’s’ necks to their collarbones, sniffing, sniffing…He feels his dick stiffening despite the cold air, and jumps up fast.

“Hey Taena!” he says, trying to pull out her chair for her, but she gives him a long, too-tight hug instead. 

“Lancel, it’s so good to see you,” she says.  “I’m sorry I’m so late, my lunch appointment went over.”  She undoes her coat.  “Have you been waiting long?”

She pulls a pair of white furry earmuffs off her head and shakes all her black hair out.  Lancel watches it fall right back into its usual position.   _Did you realize your best friend has permanent sex hair?_ Jaime had said to Cersei once.  Cersei just smirked.

“Um, no!  I just got here,” Lancel says, hoping he’ll remember to pretend his cup is full.  “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m all right, thanks.  All the sugar they put in their holiday drinks goes right to my hips.”  She beams at Lancel.  “Not that anyone would mind that, right?”

The image of Cersei’s slender fingers splayed out on Taena’s hips makes Lancel shudder suddenly, and not in a bad way.  “Um.  I—”

Taena leans forward.  She’s wearing a white vest, puffy on the outside, furry on the inside, that matches the earmuffs.  Her smell is even sweeter now, and he’s definitely got a full-blown erection in his pants, now.  He pulls his chair closer to the table and it scrapes angrily across the floor, so loud a guy in a suit gives him a glare.

“So, you want to know what your cousin likes?”

“I—I mean—”  He must seem so clueless, she thinks he’s just a pathetic kid.  “I know  _some_ of the things she likes, you know, to do and stuff.  I just don’t know what kind of gift I should…”

“Well, she’s your cousin and she’s way older than you, isn’t she?  I wouldn’t expect you to know these things.” 

She looks at Lancel and Lancel knows she  _knows_. 

“Here.”  Taena pulls a pen and a small notebook out of her bag and begins writing furiously.  “Here’s the name of three different perfumes.  You can take this over to Bloomingdale’s or Saks or wherever and give them each a sniff and pick the one you like best.”

Lancel realizes he’d been hoping she’d say something like…lingerie.  “Won’t I look kind of weird hanging around there?  Do high school guys  _go_ to makeup departments?”

Taena pats him on the hand.  “No one will think you look weird once you pull out that credit card that says Kevan Lannister on it, darling.”

“I have my  _own_ credit card.”

“Well then.  You’re totally ready to go give Cersei an amazing Christmas.”

“With a bottle of perfume?  Isn’t she going to laugh at me?”

Taena’s hand is still on his wrist, and Lancel hates Christmas as much as his erection loves it.

“Are you kidding?  Every time she puts it on, she’ll think of you.”  Taena’s voice seems pointed somehow, directed right at him so only he can hear.  “Isn’t that what we all want for Christmas?”

Before Lancel can even  _blink_ , she’s pushed the paper across the table at him, kissed him on the cheek, and stood up.

“I’ve got to run, but I’m glad I could help you,” she says.  “The next time I see Cersei, I better be smelling something different on her, all right?”

Lancel doesn’t think he’ll  _ever_ be able to get out from under this table, not with Christmas on his mind.

 


	26. Brother Moment; Rhaegar and Viserys

November was the worst month.  Viserys couldn’t believe the trial was dragging on into this god-awful wasteland of a 30-day period.  The drugstore across the street from the courthouse had decorated its windows for Thanksgiving, even though it was only the 2nd of the month, and the sight of it all made Viserys dizzy.  What was there to be thankful for, anymore?  Oh, they used to have the best dinners on their street, their table piled from end to end with food, with Father staring in awe at the turkey-carving knife and reminding them all to give thanks to Balerion, to Vhagar and Meraxes (whoever they were), because that’s who  _Targaryens_ gave thanks to, none of this Pilgrim bullshit.  But now it was all gone _forever_ , everything was  _ruined_ , his childhood happiness was a  _lie,_ and—

He pulled his black wool coat tighter around him, wrapped his red scarf another time around his neck, as the wind blew so hard across the grey courthouse plaza that the brown, dead leaves whisked into the storm drains one by one.  He was the only silver-haired person on the courthouse steps, the only silver-haired person in the plaza.  Mother was inside talking with the lawyer.  Dany was spending the week at Doreah’s, as Mother and Rhaegar had agreed she was too young for all this (of course, no one had asked Viserys for his opinion on the matter).  And where  _was_ Rhaegar?

“You look so lost.”  Rhaegar appeared as though he could read minds, his hair so wind-blown it could put Fabio to shame and his purple scarf matching his dark eyes  _exactly._ They were Dad’s eyes—Rhaegar had gotten them, those eyes that always made Viserys both never want to look again and never want to stop looking.  He held out a paper cup with steam coming out of the lid.  “And you look so cold.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I got myself some coffee from the cart down the block, but you still like sweet things, don’t you?  Hot chocolate.”

Since when had Rhaegar ever thought about anyone but himself?  “Thanks,” Viserys said, and took a sip.  As a Targaryen, the hot liquid wasn’t supposed to burn his tongue, but like every other time, it did anyway.

Rhaegar gestured to a nearby bench.  “Let’s sit and wait for Mother?”

The bench’s green paint was chipping off in parts, but at least the air was cold enough to rid the area of the scent of piss Viserys was sure prevailed in warmer months. 

“This trial is making me feel dead,” Viserys said. It was dramatic, but Rhaegar of all people understood drama.  “I never knew any of these things were happening.  I never knew that Mother was going through this shit.  Did I let her down?”

Rhaegar sipped his coffee.

“Don’t give me bullshit,” Viserys said.  “Tell me what you think.  I want to know.”

Rhaegar took forever to speak, it seemed.  “No,” he said at last.  “You didn’t.  On the contrary, Viserys.  She needs us, you and me and Dany.  We gave her reasons to get through each of those days you’re hearing about inside.”

Rhaegar was wrapping his arm around Viserys’s shoulders, now.

“We  _still_ give her reasons to live, Vis.  She needs us here.”  And Rhaegar squeezed his right shoulder.  It was odd, but it felt nice.  “Especially you.”

He tapped his paper cup against Viserys’s.

“To Viserys.”

“To Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar,” Viserys said.  He’d blame his tears on the bitter November wind, but he knew they were real, and he knew Rhaegar knew.  “And to Rhaegar.  To Mother.”

“And to Dany.”

“And to Dad?” Viserys tried.

“No,” Rhaegar said, his indigo eyes taking on a strange glow  _just like Dad’s, just like Dad’s_.  “Not to Dad.”

 


	27. Three Sentence Fic; Rhaenys/Viserys

First the hostess, then the bartender, and now their waitress has told them that their “skin tones look so good together.” It seems like a pretty weird thing to say, maybe patronizing, maybe offensive, but their cluelessness makes Rhaenys feel even more fearless than her glass of wine does.  She presses her lips against her uncle’s eager mouth, touches the tip of her tongue to his, and runs her hand up his thigh under the table, because it’s true: they  _do_ look good together.

 

 


	28. Five Sentence Fic; Rhaenys/Viserys

"Don’t get  _those_ ,” Viserys wailed, turning around to see Rhaenys holding a set of purple anal beads.

"You’re the one who told me things feel good in the butt, why not try?"

"Because," Viserys whispered, " _I_  want to be inside  _you._  I want my fingers in your mouth while my cock is—is—”

Their kiss was so sloppy and lasted for so long right there in the aisle in  _public_ that Rhaenys knew Viserys would be so out of it she’d be able to pay for the anal beads without him even noticing.

 


	29. Simplicity; Cersei/Jaime

It was simple enough to put on hooded cloaks and board a Lyseni ship in the dead of night, and simpler still to cross the Narrow Sea and settle down in that golden-haired Free City where no one would notice two more golden-haired, emerald-eyed lovers in the streets.

_Jaime and Cersei, the beautiful golden twins, together at last_ , Cersei thought every morning as the sun came up and set the muscled limbs of her bedmate aglow.  _No Father.  No Robert Baratheon. Nothing but us, just like it always should have been.  Like the way we were together in Mother’s womb._ The thought was almost as pleasing as her twin kissing her awake each morning as the day warmed up and a breeze blew off the Narrow Sea through the open windows.

Their life in Lys was simple, as simple as everything else had been. Jaime found work with the city guard, patrolling the streets with his sword at the ready.  Nothing like preparing for battles and tourneys but it would do, it would do.  Cersei stayed home with their three children—Joanna, Myrcella, and Tommen (she still mourned baby Tywin, who lived just two days).  Her feet were always bare, just as they had been when she and Jaime were still babes at the Rock.

Jaime found life to be better here, where everything was simple.  He took Cersei wherever they liked, in their bed, against the wall, on the dining table, on their balcony overlooking the city and the sea beyond, and they could say it as loud as they could.  _Sweet sister, my sweet sister.  My brother, my brother, my brother._

And here, in this simple life, the sleepless nights plagued Cersei, just as they had in Westeros.

 _Queen you shall be_ , the old hag had cackled in the tent.  _Queen you shall be_.

Jaime had gained everything, coming here to Lys, she thought as she tossed and turned next to his soundly sleeping form.  She had gained much too, she knew—but oh, what she had lost, what she had _lost._


	30. Penn Station; Rhaenys/Viserys

Penn Station’s like hell at rush hour, if hell is a tangle of angry commuters, drugged-out bums weaving around strollers, and sweat mixing with unventilated fast-food grease.  Viserys should hate it, as normally being surrounded and crowded and shoved and  _disrespected_ by the masses is something that makes him anxious on a good day, enraged on a bad one.  He really should hate it.

But they’ve just gotten off the Amtrak from visiting Aegon at his summer internship down in DC, and sure, their train got in two hours late and the wifi had been broken, but a two hour train delay meant two extra hours with Rhaenys, and the broken wifi meant there was absolutely nothing else in the world for him to do on the ride but stare at the bone structure of his niece’s face and memorize all the things the sunlight did to her brown eyes, and hold her and kiss her and brush his hands up and down her leggings-clad thighs as much as propriety would allow.

And now, here in the commuters’ hell that is Penn Station, the crush and crowding of strangers’ bodies means no one notices as Viserys slides his hand underneath the red sweatshirt that’s knotted neatly around Rhaenys’s waist and cups her ass.  No one notices as he slides his hand down her ass and around, beginning to stroke her cunt softly through the thin material of her black leggings.

“Keep walking,” he says to her, and she glares at him but then she’s grinning even as her eyes glaze and her lips part slightly.  “Keep walking.”

The wet spot underneath his fingers is growing fast.  “That’s my Rhaenys,” he says, massaging her cunt just a bit faster now.  “She’s such a good girl.”

“I’m going to get you back later.”

Viserys smiles.  They’re approaching the LIRR waiting area, near the end of the corridor, and the crowds between them and the entrance to the subway are even denser.  They’ll take longer to get through.

Good, he thinks.

“If you come by the time we get to the subway, I’ll  _let_ you get back at me later.”

Rhaenys nods, her thighs clenching around his fingers as they walk, and Viserys beams at the faces around him.  This isn’t hell, no, not at  _all._


	31. Waking up with amnesia AU; Aegon/Arianne

He’s staring at a white ceiling.  There’s whispers and beeping noises all around him.  Where is he?  

"He’s awake!" a woman’s voice says from somewhere he can’t see, and the whispering gets louder.

He tries to lift his head but it feels too heavy.  His arms are heavy, too.  His brain feels the heaviest.

He’s in a hospital, he thinks he’s figured that out, but how did he get here?  What was he doing to get him here?  Who are the women he can’t see?  He realizes, worst of all, he can’t remember  _anything_ from before this hospital room, not even his name.   _Not even his name_.  Why does he know this is a hospital if he can’t remember his name?

"Hey."  The women are standing in front of him, now.  Arms are reaching, messing with his pillow, and now his head’s propped up and he can see a little better.

There’s three of them, and he doesn’t remember their faces, but that doesn’t mean anything, he realizes, if he can’t even remember his own name.  One of them has pale skin, blonde curls and a nervous smile, the second woman’s skin is many shades darker with a stern face and she’s got some impressive-looking muscles in her arms, and the third, well, she’s gorgeous, her skin tone somewhere in the middle of the other two women’s, with dark brown curls falling past her shoulders and some nice tits underneath her patterned shirt.

They look like interesting people, but he still doesn’t know who they are.

"What happened to me?" he asks, glad he can remember how to  _talk_.  ”Who are you?”

The three women all look at each other.

"You got this, Ari," the blonde one says, softly.

"I’ll watch the door," murmurs the second one, and as she stalks towards the exit, he notices how tall and strong she is.  He’d wonder why someone needs to watch the door, but he finds he doesn’t really care.  He’s probably drugged.  It is a hospital, after all.

The third one steps up to him and takes her hand in his.

"My name’s Arianne," she says.  Her voice is sweet, but the look in her eyes doesn’t match her voice.  "Don’t you remember me?"

"No," he admits.  "I’m sorry.  I don’t even remember my name.  What happened?"

The blonde shoots Arianne a look, and Arianne strokes his head.  He winces.

"You’re my cousin Aegon," Arianne says.  "You don’t remember?"

He’s positive he’s never heard the name  _Aegon_ before, but maybe he has.  How would he know?

"Aegon Targaryen.  Ty has your driver’s license, maybe it’ll help your memory."  The blonde gives Arianne something from her wallet and Arianne holds it in front of Aegon’s face.

The photo on the clean, crisp-looking licence makes something spark in his brain.  But the license says  _Aegon Targaryen_ , and that’s not—

"Griff," he says, the word sounding more like a question than anything else.  "I’m Griff.  My name’s Griff, right?  Who’s Aegon?"

The two women look at each other, and then Arianne’s kissing him on the cheek.  Her lips are soft and plump, and her shampoo smells nice.

"Bara’s going to talk to the neurologist about your memory loss," the blonde one is saying.  "I’d imagine it’s pretty typical to be confused after your accident.  You’re our cousin Aegon, okay?  We call you Egg sometimes.  And I’m Tyene.  Or Ty."

He stares at her, the fog churning in his brain.

"You’re safe now, Egg," Arianne chimes in.  "You’re going to be okay."

 


	32. Going away to war AU; Bran/Meera

Bran gets his first headache on the first night without her.

It’s so bad he makes his way into the guest room and collapses into the guest bed with Jojen, hoping, like kids do, that the presence of another person will ward off this emptiness that’s so profound it’s making his head hurt.  Jojen won’t mind waking up to find Bran there.  Their friendship is close in that way.

But Bran sweats and his temples pound in the guest bed, too, so he tries turning on the light, putting on his glasses and reading another chapter in his sixth reread of  _Dune_ , but his head throbs too much to see the words.  He winds up lying wide-awake in the dark, the breeze coming in through the cracked window doing nothing to cool his summer sweat.  As long as Meera’s over there in Kuwait, he might never sleep again.  He can’t, without the smell of watered plants and fresh, damp earth and foggy mornings that always seem to linger in Meera’s curls and clothes and the crooks of her body.  

When he sleeps at last he dreams.

_He’s flying over sand that stretches out ahead of him; as far as he can see there’s nothing but sand and sky and sunshine that looks lifeless, free of the shine it’s supposed to have.  There’s a place in Saudi Arabia called the Rub’ al Khali.  It’s the largest sand desert in the world.  He knows that’s what he flies over, he knows just as he always knows._

_This desert is vast but not as vast as his wingspan.  He feels bigger than normal, he moves faster than usual.  Soon a glittering body of water is ahead.  It’s big,  yet he can see all the way up its length.  That’s where Meera is._

_He knows where Meera’s division is.  He always knows.  He thinks he can see her specifically, even from this high up. He’s so high up.  He’s too high up._

_He points downwards.  Something glints off his wings.  Something glints?  It’s then he realizes he is not a raven.  He was not a raven as he flew over the Rub’ al Khali.  He is a plane, a big plane, and that rumble in his belly as he circles over Meera’s division isn’t the hunger of a bird._

_He lets the bombs drop._

 


	33. Partners in crime AU; Dany/Jaime

Maybe some people get to live quiet lives after they’re awarded Purple Hearts and leave the military.

But not Jaime, not  _poor fucking Jaime Lannister._

He’s just started adjusting to the humiliating physical therapy with Doc Qyburn and the fancy prosthetic hand and the cramped apartment with Dany (okay, the only  _adjusting_ he’s doing in  _that_ case is trying to position her better with one hand before he fucks her against every wall) when Dany comes to him with a Situation.

He should have known better.  Targaryens, whether they’re crazy or not, always get themselves into Situations.

That scummy punk douchebag she used to date, that Daario Naharis, well, he’s fucking a  _dude_  now, and word on the street is that the guy is some sort of full-fledged member of a religious cult of assassins. (Jaime can’t stop imagining that weird guy from  _The Da Vinci Code_ who beats himself.)  And, of course, Daario’s helping him with a hit, or  _something_ , because that’s what Daario does.  And the scumbag told Dany he needed her help because she was so  _helpful_ and  _useful_ and  _capable,_ and Dany can’t resist hearing that she’s helpful; she prides herself on that. _  
_

And that’s how Jaime’s found himself walking down an empty street in the Garment District, a Lone-Handed Gunman with his blonde curls tucked under a black hat and a leather glove crammed onto the prosthetic.

The Dany-driven getaway car slips up besides him on the street.  He kicks some trash out of his way and stares through the window at her, briefly.  Even with her hair hidden under the hood of her sweatshirt, she looks so perfect, so fuckable, so competent, and here he is about to see if he can actually shoot a moving target with his non-dominant hand.  Tyrion’s friend Bronn’s unregistered gun better not fail him.

There’s never anyone around on these blocks this late at night, Jaime remembers as he slips into the shadows underneath the awning of the trimmings store.  It’s the only store on the block with a light still on.  They’ve timed it perfectly. 

Jaime opens the door and steps into the shop, gun raised, but there’s no one there.

As he steps around a tall rack of buttons, an arm encircles him, pinning him to a set of shelves, and he’s struggling, wiggling like a fish but something cold and metal is still pressing against his head.  This is fucked-up, he thinks.  How could he, of all people, have been taken by surprise on some mission that’s not even his own? It’s some kind of sick joke—he made it out of Afghanistan almost in one piece, only to die on a shelf of buttons.

Then there’s a gunshot and Jaime’s falling forward, the man’s heavy weight sending him toppling.  Jaime smells blood.  He crawls out from under the man he was supposed to have killed.

Dany’s standing there with a gun.  There’s some shock in her purple eyes, but it’s not  _all_ shock.

"That’s the right guy, right?" Dany says.

They’re supposed to be getting the guy’s body into the trunk of the getaway car somehow, but Jaime can’t help but be reckless.  He cups Dany’s cheek with his left hand and kisses her so hard her lips will bruise after.

"Next time  _you’re_ driving the getaway car,” Dany breathes in his ear.

 


	34. Birthday Gifts; Rhaenys/Viserys

He’s been buying Rhaenys a present on her birthday since he was old enough to go into a store and want to buy things.  She might as well be his sister—before Dany showed up unexpectedly, she basically  _was_ his sister—and sisters ought to get presents.

It started with money Mom gave him, and then Dad’s platinum cards, and then finally he had his own card with “Viserys Targaryen III” on it, but no matter who was paying or how, he made sure to get her a present every year without fail.

There was the gymnastics Barbie, he remembers, and a few years of stuffed kittens and dolphins, and even some fancy toys for Balerion.  There was the year he got her the red diary with the gold-edged pages with the strange, completely confusing hope that she’d write about him in it.  There was her 19th birthday, when he’d given her his credit card, taken her out shopping, and told her to buy whatever, wherever, and then masturbated to the thought of her trying on clothes in the fitting rooms for the next week.

And there’s today, her 23rd birthday, but Viserys can’t stop thinking of her 11th, when friendship necklaces were the thing with all the girls he knew.  He and Rhaegar went to all of Rhaegar’s favorite stores in the East Village looking for the right necklaces the day before, and Rhaegar was cranky the whole time, but it worked; on Rhaenys’s 11th birthday, Viserys slipped a necklace with a sun pendant around her neck, and showed her the dragon necklace around his own.

_We’re best friends forever, right?_

_And best brothers and sisters._

How can he not remember this on her 23rd birthday, as he fastens the thin black leather collar (with red leather on the inside) around her beautiful neck?

He’s about to remind her that the next part of her birthday present, now that she’s got the collar on, is sucking his cock, but he throws his arms around her instead, clutching her naked body to his own.

"Are you thinking what I’m thinking?" he asks.

"Best friends forever?"

She kisses him, hard, and he’s lost.

 


	35. Tumblr AU; Lancel

It wasn’t fair.

He just wanted to go onto his dash and reblog all the new pictures of Tamsin Egerton, Celina Sinden and Elle Fanning that had posted in the tags while he was at school.

Instead, his dash was full of notifications.  Every day he gained new followers.  That was the  _point_ of tumblr, right?  You were supposed to have a blog cool enough that people wanted to follow it.

But these blogs were—Lancel wondered if Theon Greyjoy had something to do with it.  Maybe he should unfollow Theon’s blog.  Or maybe it was Joff, that piece of shit.  Joff had somehow put a virus on his tumblr.

No matter who’d done it, Lancel was getting at least 5 porn blog followers a day.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a  _normal_ follower.  There were blogs with 69s and XXXs in their urls, there was “virginwhores4u,” and “bootypalace” and even “bootypalace2.”  It was disgusting.  He wanted them to go away.  He was afraid Willem or Martyn would somehow find them while they were trying to play Club Penguin on his computer, and Dad would be pissed, and somehow Uncle Tywin would find out and be even  _more_ pissed, and Cersei would—

As Lancel checked his notifications nervously, he saw today he’d only gained one new follower.  He checked the url.

It was an incest porn blog.

He practically  _ran_ to his bedroom door, slamming it shut and locking it.  He got back to his computer nearly as fast and clicked on the url before he could back down.

All the girls were blonde.

Well of  _course_  they were, he reminded himself.  Weren’t all girls blonde in porn?

But it didn’t matter.   _They were all blonde._

 


	36. Boss/intern AU; Dany/Jaime

Jaime stared after the guys as they headed in a pack toward the elevator bank.  They were his coworkers now—Hightower, Whent, Gaunt, Darry, Grandison, and Dayne (whose ass looked strangely chiseled in his grey pants, but Jaime wouldn’t think about that now).  Only Selmy—went to talk to Mr. Targaryen, and Martell—went to call either his sister or his girlfriend, Jaime couldn’t remember which, were not going out for lunch.

And Jaime, of course, so intimidated by this group of guys he was sitting hungry at his desk like a loser instead of going out for lunch with his coworkers.  So what if it was his first day?  Jaime Lannister was a man of  _confidence_.  But he didn’t feel that way, sitting in his cubicle.  Why did he have this internship?  He was younger than anyone else here, and hadn’t even seen the front door of the Wharton School, much less gotten an MBA from it.  What did Mr. Targaryen want from him?  

He slid his phone onto the desk and turned on the display, wondering if he should text Cersei or Tyrion (sure, they’d both make fun of him, but at least he’d look busy) when he heard footsteps heading toward his cubicle.

He spun around in his chair the way he thought a confident business intern might do it, only to find a gorgeous girl standing in front of him.  She was clearly his boss’s daughter, Dany—though he’d never seen her before, she had the same weird, pale beauty Mr. Targaryen did, except for her eyes.  Her eyes weren’t creepy and dark like Mr. Targaryen’s; they were a shining violet, and they were—

"It’s nice to meet you, Jaime," she said.  They shook hands.  Her hand was little and hot without being clammy.  "I’m Dany.  How’s your first day going?"

"Great.  It’s going great."

Dany smiled, her eyebrows raised slightly.  ”It’s pretty quiet in here.  Where’s everyone else?”

"They, uh—I had to stay behind.  To catch up on some things."

"Yeah?"  Dany smoothed the front of her sweater, and Jaime felt fidgety.  "Are you done  _catching up?_ Because I actually came by to see if you wanted to grab lunch with me, but if you’re busy…”

Jaime stood up and stretched, hoping his shirt was pulling tight over his muscles in a good-looking way.  At his full height he was much, much taller than Dany Targaryen, a perfect height for staring at the neat part in her silvery hair.

"Do you always go out for lunch with the new interns?" he had to ask as they walked out of his cubicle and down the quiet hall.  "Does Mr. Targaryen ask you to?"

"Dad?"  Dany gave a little snort.  "Nah.  I don’t even work for him.  I’m still in college, but I’m doing a study abroad program in Mongolia and it doesn’t start til next week, so I don’t have anything to do right now."

"Holy shit, Mongolia?  That’s so cool," Jaime said.  They had stepped into the elevator.  They were alone.  (They were  _alone_.)  He didn’t feel like he had to be professional.  ”What do you even do there?”

"Well, I’m double-majoring in anthropology and international studies, so—"  She stopped short, giving him the sort of intense look he’d already come to expect from her father.  "This is really weird, I’m really sorry, but can I kiss you?"

Jaime didn’t even need to speak.  Their lips were meeting in mid-air.  Her mouth tasted like cinnamon and her lips were soft and perfect.  She was standing on her tiptoes.  He ran his hands through her soft, fine hair and cradled her head, bringing their mouths closer together.

The  _ding_ of the elevator reaching the lobby made them jump.  They sprang apart as the doors slid open.

_Fuck_ , Jaime thought.   _Fuck._ He didn’t even have anything to hold in front of his crotch.  He suddenly found himself wishing briefcases were still in style.

"There’s an accessible bathroom on the third floor," Dany breathed.  "It’s just got the one toilet, and the door locks."

Jaime pressed 3 so hard his finger hurt.

 


	37. Modern AU; Aegon/Daario

Griff came home from work every night wanting to quit.

“You’re lucky you have a job in this economy at all,” his uncle lectured over and over, rubbing lotion on his fucked-up hand as he did.  “I’ve got news for you, Griff.  No matter what job you have, there’s always going to be that one asshole who gets under your skin.  You have to learn how to tune him out.”

But Griff thought he was going to lose his mind. 

Daario Naharis was a nightmare to work with.  He charmed the owner of Pentoshi Harvest Restaurant and Juice Bar, the rest of the waitstaff, the chef, the dishwashers, the customers, _everyone_ with a flash of his tacky gold tooth, a few slick phrases and an offer to touch his creepy blue hair and even creepier blue facial hair.  Griff had gone through a blue-haired phase too, once, but after one day of working behind the smoothie counter with Daario he’d gone home and destroyed all photographic evidence that he’d ever had the same hair color as this massive tool.

But no one else thought he was a tool, and that was the problem.  His ego had been inflated to a size even bigger than his nicely-sized dick that Griff had accidentally caught sight of one time in the bathroom.  He had streams of girlfriends coming into Pentoshi Harvest to giggle at his muscles as he chopped up bananas and harvested their fucking wheatgrass for their smoothies (they paid for smalls and got larges, of  _course_ ).  They were all hot and blonde; the one who came in most often looked so much like Griff, same eye color and _everything_ , that he couldn’t even look at her anymore. 

Daario swung both ways, though, doubling the amount of people who came in to stare at his ass.  Griff glared at them all as he cleaned out the blenders and washed down the cutting boards; there were one or two sweaty bikers who looked like they couldn’t believe they were in an organic restaurant; there was Oberyn Martell, whose face and fancy car Griff recognized from all of the supermarket tabloids; once, there was a guy with multi-colored hair and a bloody bandage wrapped around his hand, to whom Daario slipped at least half of their fruit supply for the day.

( _You can’t give people food for free like that, that’s not cool!_ Griff had protested, to which Daario had responded,  _He doesn’t have a lot of money and he’s gotta eat, okay?  Are you some kind of capitalist pig, huh?_   He’d then oinked at Griff for two weeks straight, and Griff learned his lesson.)

Fuck, Griff hated this asshole.  He hated Daario Naharis so much he started seeing his face everywhere.  When he did errands for his uncle.  When he tried to fall asleep at night.  Even when he pulled up some great girl-on-girl on his laptop and tried to jerk off to it, it was how much he hated Daario he was thinking of each time he reached frantically for a tissue.

Then came the day Daario decided to quiz Griff on their smoothie ingredients during the lunch rush.  Three cruise ships had docked in Pentos that morning, one from the Arbor, one from Lotus Port and one that was strangely full of Qohorik, and there they all were, ordering smoothies to-go and witnessing Griff’s shame.

“Hey Griff, what’s in a Berry Blast?” Daario yelled over the whine of the blender.  “No cheating and looking at a menu.  Go!”

“Um, blueberries, raspberries, um…strawberries…banana?”  Griff didn’t know why he didn’t just say a nice  _fuck you_ to him.

Daario laughed, tilting his head so far back his ponytail swung.  “He thinks we put bananas in a  _berry_ smoothie!  Poor kid, I should fire him myself.”

And five minutes later.  “Hey, Griff.  What’s in our Protein Explosion?”

“What’s in our Pentoshi Harvest Special?”

And over, and over again until Griff thought he might punch Daario in the face as soon as their shift was over.

“Hey, Griff,” Daario asked.  There were five more minutes left before Griff could start getting ready to leave.  Why was this still happening?   _Why?_ “I have another question.”

“You fucking asshole,” Griff hissed, making sure no one else could hear him.  “What the fuck is your problem?  Why can’t you leave me alone?”

Daario raised both hands, grinning just a little bit.

“Chill, Griff, chill  _out_ ,” he said.  “I was just going to ask if you were free tonight.”

Griff stared at him, his eyes so wide he thought his eyeballs might pop out and roll across the sticky floor.

“I was thinking we could go out to dinner,” Daario said.  “You know, someplace that’s not so healthy.  You down?”

Griff kept staring.

“My treat,” Daario continued, and Griff found himself nodding without even realizing.  Yes.  Yes, he was down, of course he was down.  There was suddenly nothing in the world he’d rather do.

And suddenly everything made a lot more sense.

 


	38. Childhood friends at a support group AU; Ashara/Oberyn

Some people’s faces change over time, but this person sitting just three chairs to his right can’t be anyone but Ashara Dayne.

She was always around when he was a kid; she lived just down the road at Starfall, and when Elia was busy and couldn’t play with him, Ashara was there.  She was always there.

She was funny as hell but she was serious, too—Oberyn remembered the day he called her “Ash,” because he gave all his friends nicknames, and her purple eyes went from wide to squinty and cold.   _Don’t call me that.  Call me Ashara._ _  
_

And so she did.

"Would you like to share?" the grief counselor was asking, her eyes on Ashara.  Perfect, composed Ashara in this room full of people with swollen eyes and wadded-up tissues in their palms.  She wore a black pencil skirt and a lavender blouse, all businesslike, but the stilettos on her feet practically defined  _fuck-me shoes,_ and Oberyn could see that the heels were worn.  Her feet cried out  _fuck me_ on a regular basis.

"I just—I can’t believe it’s only been two weeks," Ashara said.  Her voice made Oberyn think of foxgloves.  They were beautiful, and purple, and poisonous, and in this case  _poisonous_ meant he was getting an erection at this grief counseling session, which was a little ridiculous even for a man of his predilections.

"It feels like forever, but I don’t want it to feel like forever…I’ve been realizing that…If I keep thinking it was just yesterday that he died, maybe I won’t forget what he was like.  I’m afraid of forgetting my brother."

Oberyn couldn’t believe Arthur Dayne had died.  Arthur had been strong as a bull and inhumanly gorgeous to boot.  He remembered that one time in high school before his family moved out to Sunspear, that time in the Starfall poolhouse, when he’d gotten on his knees and sucked Arthur’s cock so hard his throat hurt the next day.   _He_ remembered Ashara’s brother.  He’d always remember the heaviness of Arthur’s cock on his tongue.  But this wasn’t exactly the right time to bring it up.

"But at the same time, trying to remember him  _hurts_. I—”  She reached for a tissue and waved her hand, indicating she wanted to skip the rest of her turn.

When the counselor turned to him Oberyn declined to share, as he always did.  His thoughts about Elia were no one’s damn business.  He was only going for Doran’s sake, anyway.  But his eyes lingered on Ashara’s face, and he knew in his gut that she knew exactly why he was here.

They walked out together when the meeting was over, side by side, not saying anything until they were out in the humid air of the evening.

They hugged on the sidewalk.

"I didn’t know how much I missed you until I saw your face," Ashara said.  "I’m so sorry about Elia."

"And I’m sorry about Arthur."  Oberyn decided to seize the opportunity.  "Should we continue this over a drink?  I could use a drink, and someone who understands."

"I’d love that," Ashara said, and took his hand in hers.


	39. Amaurophilia; Sansa/Tywin

He has had his fill of hardened women.  Joanna has left him; his daughter thinks herself a man. But Sansa Stark—well,  _she_ is happy to sit before him trembling and vulnerable, content in her position of the ultimate trust and subservience, a silk scarf bought just for this purpose tied around her blue eyes.

"Open your mouth," he says, and when he brings her head forward, she exhales in a moan and a warm breath around his erection.

"You-you taste even better this way," comes her muffled whisper, and Tywin nestles his hands in the silky red hair at the nape of her neck and tightens the scarf further.

 


	40. AU; Jaqen/Shitmouth

The two men stared uneasily at each other over their tankards of ale at a rickety table in an inn on the Kingsroad.  It was once a peaceful place, this inn, but now it buzzed with talk of war and lusty rumors of Lannister loot.  Amidst the chaos, the men’s unending glances easily went unnoticed.  But there they sat, their ale half-drunk.  The shorter, more dishevelled of the two pushed aside a greasy plate of chicken bones.  The other man, fair of face and peculiar of hair, took the last bite of a mealy apple and placed the core neatly besides him on the table in place of tossing it into the litter that collected underneath the tables.

The dishevelled man was the first to break the silence.

"I must say," he began, "and you best listen to me, for this is a grievance I’ve waited too terribly long to air.  I have grown weary— _weary_ I tell you—of having to spew such profanities.  Such vicious, vile,  _foul_ words.   _Shit_  and  _fuck_  and  _bugger_  and _arse_  and  _cunt_ — _pah!_ They vex me so.  They sear my tongue with their poisonous sting.  And to have to say them in front of women and babes—”  He took a large sip from his tankard.  ”How I envy you and your polite ways and that damned smooth, mellifluous way you have of speaking.  You haven’t the faintest idea what it is like to live the burdensome life I lead.”

His companion shook his hair—both the red side  _and_ the white side, as it were—off his face and looked the first man full in the eye.  The languid air about him while he ate his apple was gone, replaced by a thin-lipped intensity.

“ _I_ think I’ve never heard such horseshit in my life.  Or any of my  _other_ lives.”  He shoved his tankard to the side and leaned in close.  ”Have you any idea, Shitmouth?  You talk of your  _burdens_ , oh…have you any idea of the burden of being  _A Man?_ _A Man_ this.   _A Boy_ that.   _A King_ dies.   _A Lovely Girl_ —”

"A  _lovely girl?”_ Shitmouth spluttered.  ”Have you—You told me I was your only, Jaqen.  Your only!  Wretched, perfidious—”

"I’m not done talking," the taller man known as Jaqen said, a dagger suddenly in his hand.  Shitmouth’s eyes widened.  "As  _I_ was saying, I’m tired of talking about  _A Man_.  It’s time to start talking about me.   _Me!_ Who even talks like that?  I sound like a complete nutter.”

The men became enveloped in silence once more.  Yet again, Shitmouth was the first to continue talking.

"Bugger this whole thing," he muttered.  "I like the way you bloody speak, you stupid fuck."

"And a man is most enamored of these bold words," Jaqen replied with a smile.

The two men clinked their tankards together and drank.

 


	41. Camp Counselors AU; Aerys/Tywin

Working as a summer camp lifeguard is nowhere near as romantic as it looks in the movies; at least, it sure isn’t at Camp Summerhall.  Some of the six-year olds get a little splashy and scared in the water, but otherwise all Tywin does is sit with a whistle around his neck and stare at brats playing in the cold, weedy lake.  He’s so bored he’s started drinking can after can of Coke to keep him hyped and alert.  He’s going to go back home to Lannisport this summer with his paycheck, a sunburnt nose and a set of rotting teeth.

This afternoon’s just as boring as the others before it.  Tywin wishes he could resume reading his copy of  _The Art of War_ that he’s got in his cabin, but nothing ruins concentration while you’re trying to read about the ancient Chinese military than a bunch of screaming kids.  Also, Mr. Targaryen— _Just call me Jay, it’s summer camp, we are all friends!_ he chortles whenever someone calls him  _Mr._ —wouldn’t like him reading on the job.  He cranes his neck up the path leading down from the cabins to the lake, hoping Jo’s group is coming early to swimming.  Jo makes even the camp-required one-piece look sexy.

Someone shrieks behind him in the water, and then there’s another shriek, and Tywin looks to see a crowd of frightened eight year-old girls watching some pale, skinny arms flail in the lake.  Tywin pulls his shirt off in that smooth motion he doesn’t get to use enough.  The person’s head has sank mostly below the murky water, leaving only a mass of long, light hair glimmering on the surface.  Tywin thinks of mermaids as he charges down the dock and dives in.

The chest Tywin wraps his arms around is not a mermaid’s chest; it’s flat and skinny and all that hair is plastering itself to his face and Tywin knows who he’s just rescued.  Mr. Targaryen— _Jay_ —has two kids, and he’s put them both to work at camp for the summer.  Rhaella, who works in the arts and crafts cabin, is nice enough and her lanyard skills are legendary, but his son Aerys is a whole different story.  He’s supposed to be working in the office, but he spends most of his time sunbathing shirtless on the soccer field and flirting with the female counselors.  The only part of his job he seems to like is taking care of the camp bonfire.

And this is who Tywin has rescued.  He doesn’t know which feeling is stronger: his disgust at how undignified his job is, or his embarrassment for this guy his age who apparently can’t swim.

By the time Tywin’s laid Aerys and his hair out on the dock, the guy has an erection.  Tywin isn’t sure if that’s normal or not.  He hopes the eight year-old girls don’t know what an erection is.  “Did anyone see if he had a towel with him?”  Tywin tilts his head to the side to let any water drain out of his mouth.  “Get me some towels.”  His skin is so pale Tywin can see the criss-cross of blue veins underneath it.  He feels uncomfortable.

Minisa, the eight year-olds’ counselor, thrusts two white towels and a pink at him, and Tywin doesn’t bother to admire her thick red hair this time.  He bundles Aerys up in the towels, awkwardly bunching one of them up in his lap, and is relieved to hear him coughing.  Having to perform mouth-to-mouth in public would take his dislike of this job to the next level.

“I can’t swim,” Aerys finally says, his voice weak and whispery.  “I thought I’d be okay.”

“That’s crazy,” Tywin says.  “No one who can’t swim should be going that far out.  At least ask me for a float or something.”

“Are you serious?” Aerys sits up, holding the towel around his shoulders firmly closed.  All that wet hair was probably uncomfortable.  “That would be pretty embarrassing.”

“Being stupid and unsafe is pretty embarrassing, too,” Tywin points out.  “You should go lie down and rest.”

“Can I sit in the lifeguard chair?  I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Nice try,” Tywin says, wondering if those soaked camp shorts were still tented.  “If you want to sit in the lifeguard chair, ask your dad to give you this job next year.”

Minisa suggests that the girls get back in the water.  “He’s fine, look, he’s fine,” she’s saying to them.  Tywin stands up and helps Aerys to his feet.  The lap-towel falls to the dock, and Tywin cringes.  He thought cold water was supposed to make hard-ons go  _away_.  What a creep.

“Go get some rest,” he commands again, and this time Aerys listens, squelching away and leaving glistening footprints on the dock.

*

“Hey.”  Aerys is sitting by the campfire, in new clothes but otherwise looking no worse for his bath in the lake.  “Come sit with me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be putting that out?” Tywin asks.  “I don’t want to stop you from doing your job.”

“I’m not worried about my father.”  Aerys pats a spot on the log next to him.  “Come here.”

“Thanks for saving me,” he continues once Tywin has sat down.  Everything feels uneasy, though the night’s just like any other night at camp, with bugs buzzing and the wind rustling the leaves softly and the sound of kids thankfully gone for the day. 

“No problem,” Tywin says.  “It’s my job.”

“Do you wanna know something?”

“Sure?”

Aerys starts to laugh.  Tywin waits.  Listening to someone laughing is pretty boring when you’re not also in on the joke.  “I know how to swim.”

“Seriously?  Are you fucking serious?”

“Mmhmm.”

“So you did that on purpose?”

Aerys is still cracking up.  “I can’t believe you fell for that.  You thought I didn’t know how to swim, when my family runs a summer camp.  How the  _fuck_ would I not know how to swim?”

“You’re laughing at  _me_  when you pretended to be drowning just so that—”  Tywin searches his mind frantically for any reason he can think of for doing this, and when he hits upon it he  _knows_.  “So that I could save you?”

“Yup.”  Aerys’s hair still looks wet. It would be perfect on a mermaid, Tywin thinks, someone with tits and a good personality.  “Where was my mouth-to-mouth, Tywin?  I thought that was part of the job?”

“You didn’t need it.”  Tywin wonders if he’d get fired for punching the camp director’s son in the face.  “You only need that if you swallow lots of water.  Don’t even  _think_ of—”

“I do need it,” Aerys says.  He is scratching so vigorously at a mosquito bite on his thigh Tywin watches it start to bleed.  “One of my summer goals was to get mouth-to-mouth from Tywin Lannister.”

“You’re not going to get that,” Tywin says.  He could stand up and walk away.  Why isn’t he standing up?  He feels flushed in the heat of the bonfire.

“Are you sure?”  Aerys rests his hand on Tywin’s jaw.

Tywin leans in and kisses him first.  If this is the game Aerys wants to play, well, then Tywin will make sure he’s the best at it.

 


	42. Three Sentence Fic; Jaqen and Jon

Jon wonders what you even say to what is _clearly_ a grown-ass man leaving your little sister’s room— _If you fuck with her I’ll fuck you up, I hope you’re using every form of protection in the goddamn book, come back here and I’m calling the cops on your ass I don’t care that she’s eighteen--_

One would make him sound stupider than the next, but before he makes a fool of himself, Jaqen puts one of his leather-gloved hands on Jon’s shoulder and stares very seriously into his eyes.

“A man cares very much about Arya Stark, and would never harm her,” he says, and leaves Jon confused as he turns and lopes down the stairs, tucking his brightly-colored hair under the hood of his sweatshirt.


	43. Kiss in the Rain; Jaqen/Shae

A man feels free to cry as he stands on the creaking, pitching dock of Lorassyon harbor.  There are very few around who might care about the state of a man; besides, the rain comes down in torrents from the snake-green sky.  It would be hard to tell the tears apart from the rain.

“We couldn’t have been together anyway,” a girl named Shae says, the tiredness in her voice reminding a man how many times she has said these words before.  She stands on her tiptoes to cup a man’s wet cheeks and brush hair, both red and white, from a man’s forehead.  “A man is of noble birth.  My father sells cloth.”

“A sweet girl knows that does not matter to a man.”  A man leans down and kisses a girl on the lips, and kisses and kisses and kisses.  A man brings his lips to the delicate curves of her ear, nipping at the plump earlobe before he speaks again.  “Stay in Lorath.  A man can get a girl all she desires.  A girl can sleep with ten pillows and awaken to feast on ginger sweets and drink wine from the Summer Isles.  A man will buy a girl dresses in the finest velvets in Lorath.  On days when it rains like this day, girl and a man can linger in their bed.”  A girl shivers and breathes against him.  The shawl a girl wears over her shoulders is soaked through; a man’s purple velvet cloak is sodden and heavy.

“Jaqen, you’re kind, you’re…I desire you.  You know I do.”  A man does.  A man thinks of the days he has spent in a girl’s small house, in a girl’s small bed while her father is out at the market, watching a girl’s body arch and curve in the shadows while she rides a man until he is too weak to continue.  A man knows how a girl feels.  A man thought he knew how a girl felt.

“So then a girl ought—”

“I  _can’t._ I can’t let my father go off on his own.  I’m all he has, and he thinks we’ll do better for ourselves across the Shivering Sea…I can’t…”

A sailor yells from the deck of the ship.  A man’s blood feels cold in his veins.  A girl kisses him once more.  Her small hands try in vain to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

“You’ve got coin, you’re a  _nobleman_ ,” a girl says, smiling an uneasy smile.  “Maybe you’ll take a ship across the Shivering Sea too, someday.  Maybe you’ll find me in Westeros.”

“A man would like that.”

A girl nods.  “Well.  Farewell, Jaqen…”

A girl’s fingers trail through a man’s, and then a girl is running towards a ship.  The sailors cackle.  It sounds like seagulls, diving and fighting in a man’s ears.  A man’s head suddenly pounds.  A man’s world spins.

A man sinks down to the wet wood of the pier.  A man would call for help, but the weather is so miserable no one else is nearby.  A man thinks he sees the ship pulling away from the dock.  Then a man sees nothing, and then, darkness.


	44. Underwater Kiss; Cersei/Lancel

The pool is clean, with beautiful bright blue water shining calmly in the sunlight.  It doesn’t even smell like chemicals.  It’s fresh and pure, just like the swimming pool was in the Hamptons, back when they used to go out to Casterly Rock every summer.

Cersei slips off her cover-up and stretches.  Her new red bikini stays just where it’s supposed to; it fits her perfectly.  The sunlight is warm on her outstretched limbs and her hair and she feels like a cat.  She knows she must be glowing.  She should be glowing, she should always be glowing.

She sits at the edge of the pool, dunking her feet in, and as soon as her freshly-pedicured toes ( _There’s a chip in them already,_  she notices _, that’s the last time I go to that place, I should make them give me a full refund)_ break the surface of the water, she  _remembers_.

She remembers the days at Casterly Rock with the pool as their babysitter, just her and Jaime in there for hours and hours til their fingers got so pruny Jaime figured their skin might fall off.  They only got out to eat sandwiches the housekeeper had made them and re-apply sunscreen.  And Cersei remembers this too.  She remembers how wet she’d get as Jaime smoothed sunscreen under the straps of her bathing suit and carefully, carefully worked it all the way up to the leg-openings.  So his sweet sister’s thighs didn’t burn, of course.   _Of course_.  They’d practice kissing, floating, leaning against the wall of the pool, even underwater with their eyes open and the sting of chlorine burning her.  But she kept her eyes open.  She’d never look away from her twin.

But now Jaime’s in Iraq and she doesn’t  _get_ tolook at him.  Oh, sure, he’s doing his duty for his country and all that, and that pleases him because Jaime Lannister cares about duty more than she ever has, but it doesn’t please  _her._ She’s left here with nothing to fill the space he’s left, nothing…unless—

There’s a Forever 21 knockoff of Jaime in the pool, floating there with his pale, gangly limbs slowly turning pink and his golden hair fanning out in the water behind him.  Cersei stands up and jumps in.  When she surfaces, he’s rubbing his eyes and spitting water out of his mouth.

“Oh, did I splash you?” she asks, her voice airy and sweet.

“N-no. I’m totally fine,” the poor kid splutters, though he’s still rubbing his eyes.  Cersei smirks.  Was there even a word to describe the particular pathetic qualities of Lancel?  He’s whipped, that’s what he is, and Cersei’s stomach turns in disgust at imagining a Lannister who was  _whipped.  Maybe he takes after Grandfather Tytos_.

“Come here,” Cersei says, and she puts her hands on his shoulders.  She’s older than him, but he’s still tall.  He might be taller than her someday.  Maybe even taller than Jaime, but he’ll look like a stringbean, while Jaime looks like he was made by Michelangelo. 

She presses her lips to his and pulls them down under the water.  His tongue is worming against her lips.  She keeps her eyes shut.


	45. Sapphires; Daario/Oberyn

Oberyn doesn’t make it back to the tents til nearly dawn, though the revelry of the past night has done nothing other than put a bounce in his step and a dullness in his heart.  He pauses outside the tent flap, smelling the way the night has changed the air.  It smells like the time just before dawn in Dorne, here in the nothingness somewhere between Myr and Volantis; the air that smells of home sharpens that dullness once more, reminding him of how good his exile has been to him.

The sky has lightened just enough to see that his Tyroshi sapphire is sound asleep right there where Oberyn had left him.  He sleeps without clothes just as Oberyn likes; he’s kicked the covers off sometime during the night and now it’s all exposed: the smooth curve of his arse, the sparse hairs that trickle up between the cheeks, the plump balls that he  _shaves_ like a vain fool who’s too young to be wary of a razor near his privates.  Oberyn doesn’t mind, though.  Daario Naharis is smooth all over, so smooth Oberyn can feel every inch of muscle working underneath his skin when he lies atop the boy.  He’s already stronger than when Oberyn first met him.  Someday he’ll be a fine warrior. Not a  _noble_ one, no, but a  _fine_ one, and Oberyn’s had his fill of noble warriors back in Westeros. 

Oberyn lies down on his mat.  Daario’s happy to sleep in his captain’s tent, sprawled out on Oberyn’s Lorathi blankets waiting for him as a satisfied cat would.  Or a paramour, perhaps.  He smiles, reaching for his jar of oil.  Some men covet gold, some velvets and laces, and he, Oberyn Martell, has taken a liking to sapphires.

He slips an oiled finger up inside Daario.  That tight ring of muscle clenches around his finger, and the sapphire groans.

“Keep quiet, or we’ll wake up the whole company.”  Daario groans again, Oberyn thinks about Daario’s thick cock straining against the mattress.  “Or is that what you want?  Ah…that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He begins to pump his finger into Daario steadily, twirling it slowly as he moves it in and out, but still the young sellsword does not answer.  He moans into the pillows instead.  Oberyn cups the back of his head, cradling the thick mane of blue.

“Answer your captain,” Oberyn whispers.  “What is it that you want?”

“To fuck,” Daario gasps out, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“Tell me how, Naharis.  Do you want me to tease your cock til you ruin my covers with your seed?  Or fuck you with my fingers, or perhaps slide my cock in there where it belongs?”

“All three,” is the response.  “Can you do all three?  I’d like all three.”

Instead, Oberyn crawls up next to the sapphire and kisses his sleep-tasting mouth.

 


	46. Pinned against a wall; Lyanna/Rhaegar

She sells flowers outside the concert hall.  Blue roses.  She sells others too, but the blue roses stand out.  She keeps them directly at the front of her table, just where he wishes his harp could be up on stage.

After a good concert he likes to take a cab straight home to his apartment where everything is white with strategic pops of color and Scandinavian furniture and the right family photos that show just the things he wants to remember.  He doesn’t need to speak to anyone other than the cab driver and the doorman.  Those are necessary.  Other conversations will ruin his calm, his euphoria, the sound of his own compositions still echoing in his head just as they had in the concert hall.

But there’s something about the girl that makes him open his mouth night after night after night.  And when he opens his mouth, he doesn’t feel like he is talking from somewhere far away, the way he does so very often with most of the people he meets.  When he talks he is there with her, and when he speaks he sees an interplay between the treble and the bass clef, he hears crescendos and glissandos.  She’s like no one else he’s ever met.

He finds out she’s Lyanna Stark, and she likes selling flowers because it gets her out of the house, meeting people, seeing faces.  And she loves flowers.

“The blue roses are my favorite,” she admits one night after the second performance of his own  _Sinfonia per sei ali._ “That’s why I put them up front.”

After that Rhaegar buys a blue rose every night.

One night he’s feeling strong and he’s feeling  _ready_.  He’s put on cologne and brushed out his silvery hair until it’s sleek and shiny.  He feels taller than the conductor of his precious symphonies, and when he asks Lyanna if she’d like to come back to his place, her smile is genuine.

“Why not?” she says.  "I bet you have good style.  I’d love to see it.“

He helps her load her table and flowers into her tiny car, and they drive back to his place together.  

Parking is hard to find that night and they have to circle the block too many times to find a spot.  Each time they go around Rhaegar feels his erection pulsing, almost  _throbbing_ , and when he takes Lyanna’s right hand off the steering wheel and places it gently on the bulge in his pants, she doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t pull away.

He’s kissing her in the elevator as soon as they make it past his grinning doorman, his hand tangled fast in her hair, breathing in her scent, and they stop outside his door to grind against each other, her hands squeezing his shoulders and his own hands cupping her slender rear; it’s so good he doesn’t understand right away why she stops and pulls away from him when she sees the vase of each blue rose he’s bought from her, all twenty-seven of them, wilting and dying in their vase in his hallway.

 


	47. Home for the holidays AU: Daario/Oberyn

It’s not like Tyrosh is too far from Westeros to go home for the holidays, it’s just that Oberyn can’t bear the thought of Daario going back there to nothing but his lowlife friends and weird estranged family situation.  And neither can Mom.

“I’m fighting with our insurance about Doran’s surgery on the other line,” Mom snapped the last time he’d called her about this, and Oberyn could picture her sitting at her desk with her black hair tied back in a sloppy ponytail and her anger making her eyes shine.  Mom was a Martell. She was pretty when she was angry.  "I don’t have time for your  _but Mom!’_ s.  How come you’re allowed to touch this boy’s unmentionables, but I can’t even serve him a nice dinner?“

” _Gods_ , Mom.“

"Don’t be rude.  Invite him." 

So Oberyn did. 

And that’s how Oberyn’s found himself lying on Mom’s couch with a head of bright blue hair in his lap. Oberyn reaches down and cups Daario’s cheek, looking into his eyes.  Normally Daario’s eyes are a similar shade of lively brown to Mom’s, but tonight he’s wearing contacts made to look like the sun.  It’s creepy, but Mom and Elia love it, and that’s Daario for you, Oberyn thinks–his creepiness pleases people.

Daario reaches down and unbuttons his new leather pants.

"I'm  _full_ ,” he says, drawing out the sounds of the word  _full_  so much it sounds more like he’s full of  _cock_ than full of  _food._ “Your mom’s a good cook.  My mom used to make me frozen dinners.  Or we’d go to the greasy Qohorik buffet around the corner.”

“They say if you’re not used to eating Dornish food, the spices can get you in the mood.”  Oberyn rubs Daario’s stomach and then moves his hand up to his chest, pinching his nipples.  "We need to get these pierced sometime, to match mine.“

"Mmmmmm.  Did you mean Dornish  _people?_ Because I think Dornish  _people_ get me in the mood.”

Daario’s tight pants show that this is clearly the case.

 


	48. Father's Day, AU; Aerys

Two weeks ago…Aerys’s head pounds, trying to figure this out.  Was it two weeks ago, or two months ago?  Two years ago?  A dream?

Life had been so good then, two weeks ago or whenever it was.  He’d spent hours chasing Dany around the backyard, making her scream and giggle with his dragon noises.  The game always ended with him capturing her, his beautiful princess, and dragging her back to the dragon-fort Viserys had built in the corner of the yard.  He’d kiss her face over and over again.  His beautiful daughter.

Rhaella didn’t like this game and she told him so.  Once, twice, more than twice.  He was feeling nice, those days, so all he did was roll his eyes.  Part of him knew there was something wrong about it.  He probably shouldn’t kiss his daughter inside a dragon-fort.  But after all, he was a dragon.  And it didn’t matter what Rhaella thought, because he was a dragon, and it didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered.  He was a dragon, a dragon,  _a dragon_ , with the most beautiful children  _a dragon_  and gorgeous clothes  _a dragon_  and a better sense of humor than anyone else he knew had  _a dragon_ and he was going to the best father ever  _because he was a dragon_  and he was going to pay more attention to Viserys but he’d start that tomorrow, because today was just too busy.   _Dragon, dragon, dragon, a beautiful purple and silver dragon who could destroy everything with just one flaming breath._

But today…Aerys tries to think of himself as a dragon, but the word “dragon” sinks him lower into the screaming pit in his chest.  This feeling makes him so physically quiet, huddled on the couch or among the purple pillows in his bed, that he can’t understand why it’s so loud inside.  The black pit whirls and screams and screams.  It threatens to explode through his chest.  It threatens to pin him to the ground and leave him stuck there forever.

He wants to wash his hair and comb through its heavy tangles, but he cannot imagine walking up the stairs, turning on the faucet, standing up in the shower, lifting his arms to work the shampoo through his scalp with his long nails.  How did he ever do these things?

There’s a knock at the bedroom door.  “What?”  he calls.  There’s another knock.  “Fuck off, Rhaella,” he moans into his pillow, though he’s talking too quietly for her to hear.

The door opens.  It’s not her, his pitiful and comfortingly dutiful sister whose face he feels sick of looking at.  It’s the three of them.  Dany and Viserys and beautiful Rhaegar.  They’ve dressed up.  Dany’s wearing a dress woven out of silver threads.  It’s getting too tight on her, which almost makes him feel something.  Viserys wears a suit and tie.  He tries too hard for his worthless father.  Rhaegar’s got his purple silk shirt on, unbuttoned farther than anyone would consider proper, but just the perfect amount for a perfect Targaryen.

“Happy Father’s Day,” they chorus.  It’s so loud.  They’ve brought him breakfast, all his favorite sugary sweet pastries arranged on a plate, and a mimosa in a big glass.  He remembers that he’s not supposed to drink alcohol with one of his medications, but he also remembered that he stopped taking them a month ago, or whenever it was, against the doctor’s orders.  What did doctors know about dragons?

“I’m not hungry,” he says.  Dany and Viserys have big wide eyes.  He’s sure they put lots of effort into this.  He wonders how it feels to  _try._ Has he ever tried?  He always seems to start doing things, only to fall right back into the pit.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrow from sadness.  Rhaegar understands.   _Rhaegar is like me_ , Aerys thinks.  Rhaella has said so, defeated.   _It runs in the family._

“Come on, Father,” Viserys says.  “This is just for you.  It’s your day.  We love you.”

Dany takes a cherry danish from the plate and holds it out to him.  He feels how warm her hands are.  The Targaryen heat radiates off of her and onto his cheeks.  He takes a bite of the pastry.  It’s hard for him to chew.  He’s not hungry.

But he does it for the three of them.  The screaming pit tells him he doesn’t love anything.  But he knows that can’t possibly be true.


	49. Father's Day, AU; Cersei

It’s 12:01 AM on the worst day of the year and Cersei yanks Robert’s unopened bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet.  He’ll either kill her or mock her when he sees it open, but, she thinks, licking her lips as she does, he can go  _fuck_ himself.  She slams bottle and glass down on the table, picking them up once again to slam them down even harder   She does it a third time, wondering if the glass will break.  That mousy, hopeful therapist Robert had made her see once suggested she break a few glasses, to help her with her  _anger_.  Cersei had laughed in his face.  If she started breaking things, she’d never stop.

No one can see her like this, no one except Jaime.  She’s a Lannister by blood and name, but no one can ever know how she roars.  So she roars alone, slamming glasses, pouring out the kind of liquor that makes people stink, flinging herself into Robert’s armchair and noticing the time again, mocking her in big blue numbers on the cable box.  12:16 AM.

She gulps down half the glass and shivers.

There are no fathers in her life.  They were taken from her and no one asked her– _Cersei Lannister_ , of all people–no one asked her permission.

Oh, Jaime’s around, of course, around as much as he can be, but Joff and Myrcella and Tommen can’t give gifts to the father they  _deserve_.  Their  _true_ father.  And as for her own father, well…

Cersei remembers trying to wrap the present she bought for Father with her  _own_ money Aunt Genna had given her for helping Jaime fix the spelling on his book report.  A crimson mug with his initials on it in gold, a lion on the other side of the mug.  She remembers trying to tie a bow around it and giving up with a shout, looking at the crumpled paper and lopsided ribbon.  She was always better with her mind than with her hands, which no one ever bothered to understand.  She had to call Jeyne Farman to come over, endure her fucking droning on about those books about horses she loved to read, to help her wrap the present.

Father kept the sloppy card Jaime made him on his desk for months.  He never used her present.

The whiskey makes her hiss what she never would, sober.   _Fuck you, Father_.  Liquor hardly burns in Cersei’s chest anymore, but these words do.  Lannisters do not turn their back on other Lannisters.  This is not how they roar.   _Who the fuck are you?_ she asks herself.

 _Someone Father didn’t love_ , something inside her whispers.

Cersei looks at her glass of whiskey.  Her hand’s twitching.  If she breaks this glass, she won’t stop.  So she drains the glass dry instead.


	50. Father's Day; Maegor Targaryen

Maegor is like his grandfather the Prince.   _Rhaegel._ Weak and sickly.  His skin is pale like his mother’s, but it does not glow in the moonlight.  Really, Maegor doesn’t even know how it looks in the moonlight.  He rarely goes outside.

Maegor never knew his father.  He died when Maegor was just a babe.  The flames got him, scorched him from the inside, melted the beauty his mother still speaks of.  Aerion’s sleek silvery curls and bright violet eyes, turned to nothing in the substance that was to transform him into something better.

Sometimes Maegor stares at himself reflected in his bathwater.  He looks at his beady, red-rimmed violet eyes and hollow cheeks and his chest so weak each rib stands out like a mocking grin.

His father died and left him this way.  His father was to be a dragon, but the flames consumed him.

Maegor wonders if dragons had ever been real.


	51. Gloves, AU; Stannis

Of course Robert wound up with the gloves, Robert of the disregard for anything sacred, Robert, who’d never even liked birds.  But maybe that’s what was needed to keep the Baratheon brothers together, Stannis mused. All the pieces of themselves had to be scattered throughout each other’s lives.

Robert had stored the cowhide hawking gloves in an empty box that had once contained Cuban cigars.  When Stannis took the gloves in his hands, feeling the familiar cracks of the old brown leather on his palms, they smelled too pungent at first, like blatant disregard for antiquated embargos.  But when he pressed his nose to the insides of the gloves, he smelled the leather and sweat and age, and he recalled hawking with his father and the weight of Proudwing on his own gloved hands.  He smiled so genuinely that Robert smiled, too.

It felt slightly strange, leaving the right glove in his desk drawer and bringing the left to the tailor, but the strangeness was nothing compared to the warmth that spread through him when Stannis presented his father’s old hawking gloves, now with altered left fingers, to Davos.


	52. Chastity; Rhaenys/Viserys

Viserys went on his lunch break at 12:30 every single day without fail.  And every single day at 12:31, Rhaenys’s phone would ring.

It was 12:31, and Rhaenys’s phone was ringing.

“How’s my little niece doing?” Viserys asked in a soft voice.  The reception was sort of off, like he was calling from a closet.  Well, considering the subject matter, he probably _was_ calling from a closet.  “Is she enjoying my present like a good girl?”

Rhaenys could think of a thousand things to say to him, like maybe a _fuck you_ , or an _I hate you,_ or _I’m gonna get you back, you’ll see!_ But with that smugness in his voice and those words he was saying…her hips rolled against the mattress, automatically, and her clit met the metal, and all she could do was moan.

The embarrassment sent a jolt of heat through her stomach and down between her legs.

Viserys let out a breath.  “She is being a good girl.  I’m so happy.  I knew my Rhaenys would like it.”

“You’re an asshole,” Rhaenys said, standing up to go look at herself in the mirror for the hundredth time since Viserys had woken her from her sleep that morning.

“If I’m such an asshole, why do you sound like you’re about to—Are you going to be wet for me when I get home?”

Rhaenys stared at her reflection.  Was it just her imagination, or did she look hotter in chastity?

Honestly, she didn’t think she could get any _wetter_.

She’d shoot back a snarky answer, but the metal strip over her cunt and around her waist and the _tiny padlocks_ securing them all in place, combined with the image of Viserys putting the keys to the locks on a string around his neck this morning, made a “Yes, Uncle,” slip out of her mouth.


	53. Peacock; Daario/Jaqen

“So what would I be?” Daario murmurs, sinking back into his down pillows.  He plucks a blue hair out of the disheveled nest of red and white tucked under his armpit.  "What animal is a man thinking of, huh?“

It seems as though Jaqen’s _exhausted_ , and Daario grins, reaching down to scratch the previously tireless assassin’s scalp.  Sure, Daario knows he can make love like a pro, fuck like a boss…but he never minds being reminded.

"Aww.  Has a man found his match in Daario Naharis?”

Jaqen’s hand darts across his chest, quick as a pointy-faced fox, and pinches his nipple.

“Seven fucking _hells,_ that hurt.”  Daario doesn’t even _pray_ to the Seven.

“A fierce, strong man has been hurt by two of a man’s fingers.”  Jaqen looks up at him, eyebrow cocked.  "A man is thinking.  A man is thinking of…a peacock.“

"A peacock?”

“Yes.  A man is like a peacock.”

Daario thinks about it, about the blue and gold he uses on his hair, the colorful clothes he wears, and the way he likes to stand up taller than everyone else in the room.

“I like it,” he says.  "So what are you, if I’m a peacock?“

"Someone who has…” Jaqen’s eyelids lower just a little.  His face looks redder.  "Someone who has fallen prey to his plumage.“


	54. Ten Sentences, Ten Fics; Daario/Jaqen

1.  _(angst)_ Daario has seen him change his face as easy as day turns to night, he knows he’ll  _never_ find him, but still he wanders through all of Tyrosh over and over, anger in his fists and a lump in his throat: how can you find someone with no face and no name?

2.  _(AU)_ Sure, sure, plenty of the riffs he writes for his guitar are based on old classical songs, but it doesn’t mean Daario wants to go sit in a concert hall and  _hear_ that shit—still, the way Jaqen goes so easily from leather jacket by day to suit jacket at night, and nestles his cello between his legs so tenderly, well…Daario would sit there and listen for infinity.

3.  _(crack) “_ A cheap Tyroshi should either take fewer showers here, or switch to better quality dye,” Jaqen sighs as he nestles back into bed next to Daario, “because a man’s bathtub is turning blue.”

4.  _(future fic)_ The beautiful Daenerys almost makes him forget.

5.  _(first time)_ The boy says he can try to look like anyone Daario likes, yet when their bare cocks slip together on the boy’s bed at the inn, it is the gangly body and plain, crooked face that Daario kisses and moans against. _  
_

6. _(fluff)_ They’ve been together six months when a man receives a simple text from Daario: the Lorathi grammar is somewhat mangled, but the meaning and intent are perfect.

7.  _(humor)_ They’ve downed so much booze even Jaqen is tipsy; at 2 AM, they get an idea, and the next thing they know they’re standing naked in front of Daario’s full-length mirror, giggling as they stare at Jaqen’s electric-blue pubes and Daario’s red-and-white.

8.  _(hurt/comfort)_ They must dress their wounds, but not yet, not yet—a man and another man lie together in bed, the warmth of each other’s blood the best comfort.

9.  _(smut)_ It’s easier than you’d think to get an expert assassin down on all fours for you—a fist in the hair, a firm nudge on the ass, and a whispered  _valar dohaeris_ does the trick.

10.  _(UST)_ Daario’s TV might be shitty, and most of the Summer Olympics coverage just a messy blur, but even through the static, he can see that one of those guys on East Germany’s fencing team’s got an  _ass_ on him.


	55. Zippers, AU; Rhaella and Viserys

_There were so many kinds of zippers: short zippers, long zippers, zippers with a hook-and-eye at the top, zippers that stopped just where underwear met tailbone._

_Viserys knew them all._

*

He hears the door open downstairs in the silence between _Unknown Pleasures_ ending and _Meat is Murder_ starting, and quickly shoves his headphones down around his neck and then tosses them onto his bed so he can listen.  How drunk is Dad be tonight?  If he isn’t drunk, or not drunk enough, Viserys will just go back to listening to his music.  But if Dad is red-faced and wasted like he _usually_ is, then—

“Aerys, lift your feet.”  Viserys’s whole posture changes at the sound of Mom’s words and the things she’s saying.  His spine straightens.  “I’m going to get you into bed, but you have to help me.  Please lift your feet, Aerys.”

“I can’t—I’m too tired—”

“I can’t carry you up the stairs, Aerys.  I physically can’t carry you up the stairs.  You need to walk—here, let me help you—”

Dad’s voice is getting louder.  Viserys doesn’t know what he wants.  He wants to punch Dad in the face for making Mom have to deal with him when he’s like this.  And he wants to thank Dad for giving him this opportunity almost every time there’s a party.

He waits.

Mom slips in silently, like a ghost, or like someone who’s used to being too careful and too quiet _(fuck you, Dad)._

“How are you, my dragon?”  She smells sweet.  The bad kind of sweet.  Booze-sweet.

“I’m okay.”  He shrugs because he needs to move.  There’s a dragon inside him, just like Dad always told him there was.  It’s twitching its wings, clambering around in his stomach and chest.  “How are you?”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m glad to be home.”  Viserys wants to invite her to sit down at the edge of his bed, like a gentleman.  “Tywin’s parties are unpleasant now that Joanna’s gone.”

Viserys takes a little inventory every time Mom stands in front of him like this.  With her silver hair pinned up she looks taller than ever, even though Dad is always snapping at her to fix her posture.  _Dragons don’t slump.  Stand up!  You’ve got to be the most embarrassing Targaryen that ever lived.  It makes me sick._

There are red marks on her shoulders from where the straps of her black gown have dug in.  It’s tighter than it used to be.  Dad criticizes her about that too. 

 “Vissy, will you--?”

She never finishes the sentence anymore, and he doesn’t have to respond.  She turns, facing away from him.  He spins in his chair and reaches up for the zipper.  He is careful.  He likes to think he’s more careful than even Rhaegar with his musician’s fingers would be.  He keeps one hand on her back as he pulls, keeping the fabric flat.

Some zippers are long and this one is one of those.  It’s a lucky night.  And he thinks, as he always does, of how easy it would be to slide his hands into her unzipped dress.  He’s a Targaryen, and he knows what Targaryens do.  He’s grown up staring at their family tree.  He learned the secret of Mom and Dad’s marriage a long time ago.  And all he wants is to show _respect_ for the dragon that Mom is by birth, the way a Targaryen should.

Instead he finishes and pats her on the back.  “All good.”

“Thank you, my dragon.”  She kisses him on the top of his head and inside of him the dragon is rearing up.  “I’m glad you waited up, but you should try to get some sleep.”

She pauses at the door and looks back at Viserys.  Her eyes don’t quite meet his.  “Goodnight, Viserys.”

Viserys never knows if the strain in Mom’s voice after he unzips her is just his imagination, or if she sounds just a little breathless because… _because…_

 

 

 

 


	56. Food, AU; Aerys/Rhaella

He has a lot to say about his sister, but all he’s thinking right now is how good she is to him when it comes to food.

He remembers there was a time, a long long time ago, when Father was still alive and Mother was, too, when he ate things with colors; he remembers broccoli and tomato sauce and whole packages of Lifesavers that burned his tongue with their sweetness, but he can’t think too hard or else he’ll remember how it all tasted and felt on his tongue, and then—

He looks down at his plate and the neat pile of slices of cooked turkey breast and the two scoops of white rice and the baby carrots that have been baked til they are soft, and he smiles. His sister wants to keep him safe.

Rhaella used to eat the same food as he did.  It was convenient for her.  But it’s been seven months now and she wants to eat strange tangy things for that thing inside her the ultrasound told them was their son, she eats tomato soup and crackers and oranges every night these days and it’s so disgusting Aerys is forced to stare at her body so he doesn’t watch her eat.  She’s almost twenty.  She had a teenage pregnancy but won’t be a teen mom, and the way her belly doesn’t fit under the table anymore and her tits are finally  _finally_ getting bigger, well…She looks…His sister is beautiful.  She’s finally beautiful now that she’s really and truly his.  

She drops her spoon into her empty bowl and the clatter echos and echos and echos through the huge empty house.

“You’re done?”

Rhaella pats at her mouth with one of their cloth napkins from the formal dinners Father used to have and nods.

“I’m not.”

“I see that.”  Sometimes Rhaella sounds like she’s about to cry.  Aerys was surprised, at first, to find out how  _pretty_ that makes her voice sound.

“This dinner’s so boring.  How about you—”

“Don’t say it, please just don’t say it,” Rhaella interrupts.  "I know what you want.“

She pushes her silver hair back from her face and gets down on the scratched-up wood floor.  Aerys pushes his chair back from the table a bit so he can look back and watch that laborious way in which she crawls across the floor.  It’s getting harder for her.  But soon their beautiful son will be born  _their son will be born_ and it’ll be easier again.

Rhaella nudges down the hem of his sweatpants and sinks her mouth right down on his cock.  Her mouth is warm.  Her hair is so smooth and beautiful.  It begins to move up and down, up and down, with no real passion or change in its rhythm, and Aerys takes his fork and knife and begins to cut up his next piece of turkey.  Rhaella cooks him plain safe foods and she sucks his cock while he eats and she’ll never leave him; everyone else has left him but she never will.


	57. Three Sentence Fic; Rhaella and Barristan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bailing Aerys out of jail AU"

Rhaella’s turned off the car but in this heat it’s making noises like it’s panting; Barristan’s breath feels strained, as well, and he fumbles with his shirt collar as Rhaella lights a cigarette with an old gift from Aerys—a monogrammed Zippo.

“I keep saying I’ve come here so many times they should just reserve a spot out here for me,” she says, reaching to take Barristan’s hand in hers, and Barristan tries to look at the fuzzy orange lights outside police headquarters, at the rearview mirror to get a glimpse of Rhaegar sleeping in the shadows of the backseat, at anything but Rhaella Targaryen or her hand.

“Thanks for coming…I hate doing this alone,” she continues, and Barristan takes that hand in both of his and squeezes hard; it’s all he can do.


	58. Three Sentence Fic; Rhaella and Viserys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Rhaella picking Viserys up for getting in a fight at school AU."

Boys fight (though Rhaegar never did) so that’s not what concerns Rhaella.  It’s that when her second son gets angry, his pale face grows paler and he talks of dragons.   _He is too old to think dragons are real._


	59. Spanking, AU; Bonifer/Rhaella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of abuse.
> 
> Set in the infamous Bibleverse.

Her ass still has a bruise on it from when Aerys had pushed her so hard she’d fallen against the sharp-cornered wooden post where the railing ended at the top of the stairs.  She’s been checking it out in the mirror all week; at one point it was the same shade as Viserys’s eyes, but now it’s fading and the edges are turning green.  It still hurts.  Icing it didn’t make it hurt less.  Getting up after Aerys had walked away and folding Dany’s clean laundry over and over again didn’t make it hurt less.

She knows what will make it hurt less.

“Your Rhaella’s been so bad this week, she’s been so bad,” she whispers against his damp cheek in the damp air of Bonifer’s room at the Super-8, grinding on that cock she knows so well by now she can practically feel its veins through his khakis.

“My sweet princess?  How could she be bad?” Bonifer, bless his sweet heart, says as he kisses her open-mouthed and sloppy.  "What did she do?“

"I masturbated in the car on the way to pick Viserys and Dany up from school yesterday,” she gasps.  "I was thinking of you and I just couldn’t…I came twice.“  She can still feel the soaked fabric of her lacy white panties against her fingers if she thinks about it.  "I was bad to do that in public.  You should spank me.”

When he spreads her out over his legs and pulls her skirt up, he hesitates.  She feels him looking at the bruise.

“I can’t do this to my angel.  I can’t—”

“Do it.”

“But I’ll hurt—”

“ _Do. It._ ”

She’s already writhing against his thigh by the first smack.  By the third she’s rubbing her clit in fast, sloppy circles, by the fifth she’s biting down hard on the thin comforter underneath them.

It’s weird, she faintly thinks, how good this pain feels when she’s  _in_   _control_ of it.


	60. Marital Bed; Bonifer/Rhaella

They would kiss slowly until their mouths opened and tongues met.  Slowly, slowly, he would unlace her white gown and let it pool on the floor in a puddle of pure, of light.  He would carry her gently to their bed and lay her down and tell her he loved her; only then would he climb atop her and rid her of her maidenhead.  The pain would be sweet; the blood staining the sheet would be beautiful.  

She could have had this; instead, she has her brother.


	61. Fashion, AU; Joanna/Rhaella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of abuse

Joanna’s always been well put-together. She loves sleek, tailored garments, things made just for her.  She’s worked hard for her money (the amount she got from the divorce settlement doesn’t hurt, either) and likes to show that off.  She’ll exude  _power, wealth, class_ with every step, thank you very much.

Rhaella is frustrating, though Joanna tries so hard to understand.  She’ll slip into strange, protective postures on certain occasions, and her clothing is too baggy, or too plain, or too young-looking depending on the day.  Joanna has offered to pay for a few bespoke items.  Rhaella refuses every time, shuddering.   _I don’t want someone else to see what I look like, under there_ , she says, her purple eyes darting left and right, up and down, and Joanna cannot press the issue.  All mothers have their marks and scars, of course, but Rhaella’s body bears more than its fair share of them, and it is enough for Joanna to have seen and touched and kissed all of them.

“Why don’t we at least pop down to the stores tomorrow?” Joanna tries one night after dinner at Rhaella’s.  Rhaella has bribed Dany—if Dany does the dishes tonight, she can go spend the night at Drogo’s—so Dany’s in the kitchen singing an old folk song over the running water, and Joanna and Rhaella have privacy.  “I’ll buy you anything.”

“No thanks,” Rhaella says.  She’s wearing a faded lavender shirt and a pair of black leggings that are too loose, and Joanna sighs.

“Are you sure?”

“Listen, Jo.”  Rhaella takes Joanna’s hand in hers, and Joanna begins to stroke those fingers, those knuckles.  “I haven’t gotten to choose my own clothes since I was a teenager.  It’s fun just to have a choice and not worry what I look like.”

“Oh?”  Joanna holds Rhaella’s hand up to her mouth and kisses it.

“I never got to pick out what I wore,” Rhaella says.  Her eyes stare right into Joanna’s own instead of fluttering around.  “Maybe if he was away.  Sometimes as a special treat, I guess.”  Rhaella rarely says his name aloud—Joanna thinks she’s afraid it’ll summon him back—but Joanna remembers reading about him in the papers before she knew Rhaella.  The body found tossed on some trash bags in an alley, the throat slit, the closeup shot all the papers ran of bloody silver hair.  “But usually he chose what I wore every morning.  My skirts were always too short, and I–It wasn’t good.”

“Ugh.  Rhae, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I keep pushing this.”

“Rhaegar was embarrassed when I came to school things, but  _he_ didn’t care.  He didn’t even care about how Rhaegar felt, and Rhaegar thought they were close.”  Rhaella laid her free hand atop their clasped hands.  “It’s so nice of you to offer, Jo, but I just…right now, I—”

“Of course,” Joanna says.  “Of course.”  She pulls Rhaella in for a hug.  It’s times like these when she remembers Rhaella is a bit taller than she is, and even though she’s got small bones and sad eyes there’s a quiet strength under there that Joanna can feel anchoring Rhaella to the ground, keeping her together, keeping her  _Rhaella._

It’s more beautiful than any clothing, that strength, and it’s enough.

 


End file.
